


The Gamble

by ZashiSenshino



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Coach-Student Relationship, Equip yourself with oxygen tubes before reading, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, How Yakov became Viktor's coach, M/M, Papa Feltsman in action, Viktor's Parents, Viktuuri in later chapters, Yakov and Viktor's backstory, Yakov and Viktor's beginnings, Yakov is swearing (because he's Yakov), Yurio will appear at the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 80,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12447726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZashiSenshino/pseuds/ZashiSenshino
Summary: In his desperate attempt to save the beloved ice rink, fifty-year-old Yakov Feltsman accepts a bet that could easily put an end to his career as a coach. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, the temperamental man starts questioning his methods and tries to find out what is really important. That’s when he encounters a mysterious, silver-haired child…Yakov and Viktor's backstoryPolish Version





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Zakład](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471619) by [Jora_Calltrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jora_Calltrise/pseuds/Jora_Calltrise). 



> [Author's Notes]  
> It's a story about Yakov and Viktor's beginnings. There's going to be some Victuuri in it, but you will have to wait a tiiiny bit for it ;) (a tiny bit more than tiny?)
> 
> The fanfic is a prequel to another story 'Dawno temu w Detroit' [TN: A long time ago in Detroit], but you don't need to know it to read 'The Gamble'.
> 
> You should read the end notes to find out about some... hmm... trivia. The story is still being written, so if you have some time, leave some nice comment and help me with writing in this way!
> 
> ~ Yours faithfully, Jora Calltrise.
> 
> ***
> 
> [Translator's Notes]  
> Hello, I'm Zashi and I'm translating 'The Gamble'! (That's quite a surprising line, I know.)
> 
> Firstly, I'd like to thank Jora for letting me translate her work, and for all the help, and for writing such an amazing story in the first place.
> 
> Secondly, I'd like to beg you for forgiveness - it's the first time I'm translating from Polish to English (Polish is my first language and I've been learning English since I was about three feet high, but I've never been to an English-speaking country for more than two months so I'm still not as fluent as I would like to be), so sorry if my translation sometimes seems sloppy or unnatural or just strange.
> 
> And at last - I hope you will enjoy the story!
> 
> ~ Kisses, Zashi

 

 

It was three o’clock in the morning and the phone hadn’t stopped ringing for at least ten minutes. A woman furiously covered her head with a pillow.

‘Darling?’ she heard her husband’s voice.

She pretended she didn’t hear anything.

‘Darling,’ the man repeated with a sigh. ‘Yakov is calling.’

That drew the woman’s attention. ‘Who is calling?’ she stammered with a sleepy voice.

‘Um... Yakov Feltsman. You know, the guy who was your pair skating partner. Also, your so-called brother and…’

‘Yeah, right, you don’t have to say that. I know _who_ he is. But why is he calling me at this time?’

‘Maybe he forgot that it’s a middle of the night in the States?’

The former figure skater snorted loudly. _Yakov_ forgetting about such an important detail? Yakov forgetting about _anything_ , basically? Yeah, of course. Maybe in some parallel universe!

If one was to believe rumours spread in the Champions’ Club at times, Yakov Feltsman forgot about something only once in his entire life. In 1952. About Comrade Stalin’s birthday. It is said that on the day of sixth December five-year-old Yakov, asked by a nursery teacher: ‘Feltsman, what day is it today?’ answered with a jolly child’s smile, ‘Father Christmas’ birthday!’ and therefore earned himself a close encounter with a rod. It is also said that a few hours later, when he was going back home angrily wadeing in the snow, calling Father Christmas a greying dick and wishing Stalin an inevitable death, he promised himself that he would never forget about anything again.

So it happened. Both.

A few months later Stalin kicked the bucket. Yakov had never forgotten about anything else. Never mind Father Christmas and whether he actually was a greying dick.

No, Yakov couldn’t simply forget about the time difference between Russia and the United States. Unless he did it on purpose.

The woman took her phone from her husband with a sigh. She moved her fingers through her short, blonde hair and stared at the screen.

‘What have I done to him?’ she thought out loud.

Did she show someone the memorable recording from 1998? Did she spill the beans about what Yakov had done in front of Lilia’s house? Did she tell somebody about the posters incident? Damn, what would be any other reason for Yakov to call in the middle of the night?!

Well, whatever it was about, there was no sense in postponing the execution. Better to have it behind.

Tatyana Lubicheva-McKenzie took a deep breath and finally (dear God, finally!) pressed the green button.

‘Yeees?’ she sang, getting ready for the load roar.

And she heard Yakov’s voice through the speaker, ‘Do you have moments when you think that everything you’ve ever learned, everything you’ve believed in, everything you’ve thought to be the right thing, is not worth a single shit?’

The woman was a little baffled with this question.

Well… okay? Okay. That was _not_ a roar. Rather a howl. Or even: a whimper. There was only one problem – Feltsman _never_ whimpered.

Exchanging knowing looks with her husband, Tatyana raised up so that she was sitting.

‘Jackie, are you drunk?’ she asked objectively.

‘No, I’m not fucking drunk,’ she was given the answer.

‘Are you crying?’

She heard a sniffing sound. ‘No, I’m not fucking crying.’

Tatyana and her husband glazed at themselves.

‘Holy hell.’ She sent her husband a shocked look. ‘Yakov is _crying_.’

‘Impossible!’ Steve McKenzie wiped his eyes in unbelief. ‘Is he even _capable_ of crying?’

‘I TOLD YOU THAT I’M NOT FUCKING CRYING!’ Yakov’s furious voice announced.

The woman sighed deeply. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘then why are you making these… ummm… weird sounds similar to crying? Someone has died, or what?’

‘Yes, for fuck’s sake. _I_ have died.’

A spark of amusement appeared in former skater’s eyes.

‘Err… no, you haven’t. You’re talking to me.’

‘My decency has died. That’s almost the same thing.’

‘That’s rather impossible,’ Tatyana stated, giggling. ‘Your decency is immortal.’

‘Well, it’s not, now. I’ve lost a bet.’

_A bet?_

The woman massaged her temple. Okay, let’s think a little… Yakov had lost many bets in his life. But he never cried because of that. Therefore, it had to be very important. What the hell happened?!

Grumbling like a cat woken up from a nap, Tatyana switched a table lamp on, put her heel against her partner’s hip and started to push the wretch off the bed with gentle kicks.

‘Go make me some coffee,’ she ordered, ‘it’s going to be a long conversation.’

Like a well-trained spouse he was, Steve put his glasses on and headed towards the kitchen.

Tatyana sat at the edge of the bed. Her own reflection was glaring at her from the huge window taking up the whole wall. Hair resembling a scarecrow’s, sacks under the sleepy eyes, crumpled pyjamas…

The former skater thought that Yakov’s voice _perfectly_ matched the miserable reflection. A voice carrying a hint of shock, stupor and enormous tiredness. A voice of a person who’s been just woken up from a deep sleep. A voice of someone, who’s just woken up from a terrible nightmare and still doesn’t know exactly what’s happening, so they’re calling the first person they could think of so that they can be assured the nightmare _isn’t_ the truth.

 _A weird association,_ Tatyana admitted to herself, massaging her temple. _A really, really weird one._

‘Okay, then…’ she said in a tired voice, ‘okay, then, Jackie, I’m listening. Tell me: _what exactly happened?_ ’

‘I’ve already told you: I’ve lost a bet.’

‘Jackie… correct me if I’m wrong, but you were betting a million times on a billion different things. You have to specify which bet exactly are you talking about.’

‘I’m talking about the bet with the biggest _arsehole_ I’ve ever known!’ Yakov blurted out in a rancorous voice. ‘The most important bet in my whole life!’

 _Aha,_ the former skater thought, _right, that tells me everything._

As far as she knew, Feltsman usually was betting with the same person as always – specifically the one whom he called _the biggest arsehole in the Universe_. And every single one of these bets was being taken deadly seriously by the Russian coach.

‘Why wouldn’t you…’ Tatyana started, ‘well, I don’t know; why wouldn’t you tell me something more? Like what were you betting on?’

She was answered with silence.

‘Jackie, are you still there?’

‘I am.’

‘So why didn’t you answer? What were you betting on?’

Not a single word. The woman was seriously starting to get scared.

Crap! So it was _so serious_ , that Yakov didn’t want to reveal what was it all about? He’d never been making a secret out of anything! Even the goddamn posters – which for Tatyana was completely incomprehensible, because if _she_ had done something like that ever, she wouldn’t have said a word about it even in the confessional. And it’s worth saying that she wasn’t exactly a _good girl_.

For God’s sake… what could be that much _shameful_ that Feltsman was afraid to tell about it?!

‘Listen, Jackie,’ the former skater began in a voice of a patient psychotherapist, ‘if you want me to help you solve any problem, you at least have to tell me _what’s the problem_.’

‘It’s about a cactus.’

A cactus? What goddamn cactus?

Before the woman had time to ask about any details, Yakov started to ramble. ‘A cactus… a bloody cactus! I should’ve forseen it. Why haven’t I done it? A cactus, it’s a cactus. It’s obviously all about a cactus! It’s always been a _damn_ cactus!’

‘Jackie, please, start from the beginning,’ Tatyana pressed her palm against her temple. ‘What cactus?’

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY „WHAT CACTUS”?!’ Yakov yelled with indignation, like he’d been asked about something obvious. ‘VITYA!!!’

The former skater blinked several times.

‘Vitya’s got a cactus?’ she asked bluntly.

‘NO!’ He is a cactus! I mean… he probably has got a cactus, I think so, I think I’ve seen that prickly annoyance in his room, but that’s not what I mean. He _is_ the cactus.’

Tatyana thought for a while. She tried to sort out all that she’d heard.

‘Okay, Vitya is a cactus. You mean, in a metaphorical way?’

‘NOOO!’ she heard another furious yell, ‘in a fucking literal way!’

Great. That could mean only one thing. Uh-oh, damn, it escalated quickly…

‘Jackie, please, listen carefully to what I say.’ Tatyana said every word very slowly, as if she was speaking to a little child. ‘I understand that you’ve finally decided to find out how does the weed taste, okay, that’s fine, it’s never too late, but it’s very important that you move to a safe place, as far from any vehicles and sharp objects as possible, preferably to a bed, so that you can wait until…’

‘HOLY FUCK! I’m not high, right?! I’m not high, you dumb twat! You’re not listening! I’m not high, and even if I was, I wouldn’t be in a bit smaller swamp than the one I’m in right _now_! You know nothing! It’s about the bet, and about the cactus and about me fucking everything up! Vitya is a cactus… just like you! You’re a cactus _as well_! Only I am a damn fern and that’s why I don’t fucking understand you! Shit… I just didn’t know what to say. That brat spilled out his soul in front of me and I didn’t get what he meant because I forgot he is a bloody cactus! Fuck, you have no idea how important was it for me… all of that… the bet! That’s the only bet I’ve ever really wanted to win… the only one, you know?! And the worst of all is that… that…’

Tatyana’s grip around the receiver tightened up. Yakov started to sob.

‘…that just at the time when I thought that… that I was going to win, all of that… I just fucked all that up!’

Somewhere in the distance an ambulance siren could be heard. Tatyana approached the window and stared at the sleeping city with sad eyes. A small glimmer of light was rushing across the streets, making a noise that would make one’s ears hurt. But the former skater’s ears barely heard the sound. They were listening to quiet weeping instead, the one of a man on the other side of the telephone line – a man, who had never cried before, ever.

 _How long have you been fighting with all these thoughts alone, Jackie?_ Tatyana wanted to ask, _Weeks? Months? Years? Oh, Jackie… you’re crying as if you’ve been suffering for many, many years._

But she hadn’t said it out loud – it could’ve been too much for Yakov’s pride. Feltsman was probably already ashamed of the fact of crying out on the phone. Even if it was while talking to someone he could trust – almost a family member; almost a sister.

Tatyana let his friend have a few more minutes to calm down, and then she asked, ‘Tell me everything. From the very beginning.

 

**Leningrad, 1965**

‘Are you going to stand there forever?! Make a decision: you either stare at your watch or you make a call! If you’re not using the phone, then get the fuck out of others’ way, whipster!’

Only one look of the green eyes was enough for the man to regret calling the one standing in the telephone booth a ‘whipster’. The moment when the nineteen-year-old slightly lifted his hat, it turned out that he looked like a thug! Or even worse – mafia!

Square jaw. Thick, constantly furrowed eyebrows. Light-brown hair resembling a lion’s mane, tied in a ponytail. Damn, even the way the young guy crushed a lollipop between his teeth was frightening! As if he had at least a cigarette in his mouth (or someone’s finger – one never knows, how mafia deals with its enemies)!

The clerk pressed his briefcase against his chest and stepped back a bit.

‘Y-you know what?’ he stammered, sending the young man an apologetic look, ‘I-I think I could use the phone in my office. N-no rush, mate! Y-you will make the call only when you’re ready.’

After saying that, he escaped at a drop of a hat.

 _And what was all of the fuss for?_ the young man wondered.

He took the lollipop out of his mouth. Or rather – the lollipop remnants. Feltsman hadn’t even noticed finishing the candy. Well… at least the sticky abomination had done its job. It helped him calm down. And Yakov preferred to be calm when he was to begin that important phone call – possibly the most important one in his life.

He glanced at his wristwatch for the last time. Okay… so now it’s the time? Unless any unusual circumstances occurred, Vadim should be home alone now. He’d better be.

Swallowing a gulp, Yakov fed the machine with some coins. Waiting for the person he was calling to pick up the phone, he was tapping the pavement with his shoe nervously and twisting the telephone wire around his pointing finger.When he realised what was he doing, he immediately stopped twisting the wire. Damn, only ladies do such stuff! And he _was not_ a lady!

‘Hello?’ he heard Vadim’s calm voice.

‘H-hi!’ Yakov whispered in a conspiratorial voice. ‘A-are parents home? Have they gone out?’

He had hardly finished the sentence when he was forced to move the receiver away from his ear.

‘Yaaakooov! Oh, I am so happy my brother has finally found some time to call home! God, I’ve started to think you’re never going to say a word! Have you got any idea how worried we were? Oh, if only I’ve been next to you right now, I would hug you so hard that…’

‘Shut up, you monkey with an elephant’s secrecy!’ Yakov hissed at the phone. ‘Tell me, whether parents are home!’

‘Chill out, they’re not. Dad’s at work, and mum’s doing shopping.’

The younger brother breathed a sigh of relief. Thanks God, his calculations were right! Still, he didn’t feel totally safe. He had to make sure the area is clear.

‘And… and the _witches_?’ he asked, meaning his two younger sisters.

‘At a houseparty.’ Vadim said with a sigh. ‘You know them. Partying when there’s any occasion.’

‘You don’t have to tell me.’

They were both silent for some time. Only after about ten seconds that felt like eternity, the older man decided to break the silence.

‘You know…’ he started gently, ‘you can’t be ashamed to talk to us about this stuff. You don’t have to be afraid, Yakov. We are family. You can’t be afraid to call us… and you _especially_ can’t be loitering around a phone booth, waiting till everyone except me are out.

Yakov let out a shocked grunt.

_How the hell did he know?!_

But, well… why was he even surprised? They had always been close with each other. Nobody knew Yakov as well as Vadim did. They had much in common, after all. Not only the same parents.

A young skater’s hand tightened up around the earphone. ‘I wanted to talk to you… because only you can _get what I mean_. Only you know how it is; to be an athlete. To train hard. To put your heart and soul into something. To win and… and…’ Yakov closed his eyes, swallowed a gulp in his throat and finally said the monstreous words, ‘to lose.’

Vadim laughed. But it was a completely joyless laugh – a laugh full of compassion and nostalgia.

‘Is that why you were afraid to call? Because you’ve lost?’

The younger Feltsman sighed quietly. ‘Y-yes.’ He almost felt his ears becoming red out of embarrassment. ‘That’s why.’

‘Were you crying?’ he could hear a hint of amusement in Vadim’s voice, ‘You know; after the competition?’

‘I was not fucking crying!’ Yakov growled in anger. Now he was red all over his face; red out of _fury_.

The brother did not answer.

‘I-I wasn’t crying!’ the young Feltsman repeated, hitting the booth’s wall angrily.

The silence on the line was _very meaningful_. Eventually Yakov decided to back off.

‘All right,’ he admitted clenching his teeth. ‘You win. I was bawling in the loo for two hours.’

‘Oh shit, _two hours_?’ If it was even possible, Vadim sounded to be _even more_ amused. ‘You were crying in the loo for two hours?’

‘And swearing at myself.’

‘Probably. That’s exactly something you’d do.’

‘And I’ve torn off the toilet seat.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘And when I was heading out…’ Yakov hesitated, ‘I’ve forced the door with a kick. It fell out of the hinges.’

‘I wish I’d seen that.’

‘T-that’s not my fault, okay? I couldn’t open it! It’s not my fault!’

‘Of course it’s not!’ Vadim was laughing his head off.

‘I think nobody knows it was me.

‘It’s hard to believe anyone except you would be able to demolish half of a toilet. They rather know it was you.’

‘D-don’t tell parents, okay?’

‘About the toilet seat?’

‘No. Don’t tell them I was crying.’

The older brother finished laughing, finally.

‘You fucked up the Worlds,’ he stated gently. ‘Who wouldn’t be crying?

Yakov shook his head. He was right, but… after all it was so _ladylike_!

Moreover, the fact of crying in the loo wasn’t the most embarrassing thing. The reason why he was crying was the one.

‘T-to be honest…’ the young skater forced himself to stay calm, ‘to be honest, I wasn’t crying because I’d lost.’

‘Okay? So why were you? It’s not about Svietlana, right? She’s been planning her retirement for a long time. You told me about this couple of months ago, didn’t you?’

‘No, it’s not about Svietlana.’ Yakov said as the truth was.

The girl he was pair skating with had nothing to do with the reason why he had been crying in the toilet, indeed. She did have something to do with the reason why he had left the said toilet – it was she who had found Feltsman, hugged him and calmed him down. She was explaining for nearly half an hour that it wasn’t his fault that they’d lost; that they’d been simply too weak, that sometimes you can give your best and it’s still not enough; that he is young and he’s got the whole life ahead of him; that she absolutely believes in him and is going to cheer him; and that maybe when he will start skating with his new partner everything would change; and so on, and so on…

Svietlana was an amazing woman. Yakov wasn’t blaming her for anything. Not for their lost, not for the fact she was retiring – she had been warning him about it for several months, after all. No, Yakov wasn’t blaming his former partner. The only problem he had was the one with himself.

‘To be honest, I was crying because… I’ve understood that there’s no point,’ he admitted with resignation. ‘I took my time, but I’ve finally understood. I should’ve admitted it earlier. I… I am not gifted.’

Holy shit; it happened. He did it. He’d told the horrible truth out loud. Now he was standing in the telephone booth like in a damn _coffin_ , waiting for the world to end.

How else could  one call… whatever was going to happen. The End of the World. The Apocalypse. The Fucking Mental Armageddon! The Lost Bet…

Yakov shrugged. When several years ago he was negotiating with his parents the possibility of him leaving for Leningrad, he had only one bargaining card – only one argument: that he was gifted. At the time, he really thought that he was.

But that was before he saw what other skaters are capable of. Let’s take an example of Alexei Vronkov…

Yakov shrugged once again. And apparently his _beloved_ brother had the ability of reading his mind.

‘Is it about Vronkov?’ he asked after a long silence. ‘Did he tell you something _again_?’

The younger Feltsman snorted loudly. The fucker’s name itself was making him willing to bite off a piece of a flagstone.

‘No, it’s not about him. I mean, obviously, he’s said some words just like he would have, the well-bred dickhead he is, but all in all he didn’t come up with anything unusual, so no, it’s not about him. Or rather… not only about him.’

‘Hmm.. not only, you say? Yakov, by any chance, aren’t you dramatizing a bit? For me, you sound like a standard, depressed man. A lot has been happening in your life lately. You’ve come from the Worlds without a medal, you’ve ended your partnership with another skater… And if that wouldn’t be enough, you had to see your greatest rival parading with the gold.’

Yakov had his thoughts dangerously close to the idea of pulling the telephone out of the booth’s wall. _Do it!_ they were wispering, _Come on, relieve yourself a little! Maybe nobody will notice?_

A huge drawback of this idea was the fact that it would mean the end of the conversation with his brother. But it was all right – he would have got many more opportunities on his way to the rink. So many opportunities for unloading his anger, so many interesting _props_! Lanterns, benches, swings – that’s right, he wouldn’t let the damn brats to swing carelessly while his career was hanging by a thread; and he hadn’t mentioned the trash cans, bottles left on streets, flowers growing in places they shouldn’t grow in, the statue of Father Christmas at the bus stop – well, of course, the greying dick had to pay his price for strutting around Leningrad in fucking April – and for the dessert, a fender of a car parked askew, finally some kids’ shoes scattered all over the hall of the Club.

 _Keep calm. All you have to do is to hold on to the end of the conversation_.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Yakov mumbled at the phone. ‘Maybe I really am depressed? But I will get on with it. I already feel better, actually.’

‘As your older brother, I instruct you not to destroy public property.’

The young skater almost jumped in surprise.

_Damn, I knew it! Fucking telepath!_

‘Promise me you won’t destroy anything today,’ Vadim asked.

‘Okay, I promise.’ _Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll meet a bunch of chavs* I can kick their arses for relaxation…_

‘And that you won’t beat anyone up.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Yakov howled, ‘Do you want me to get mentally disfunctional?!’

‘You don’t need a _temporary_ relief for your mental functionality. I sense that you’ve got a problem. Let’s talk about it.’

The younger man jerked his head angrily. ‘What are we supposed to talk about?’ he grunted with bitterness. ‘I’m not gifted. That’s all.’

‘Yakov…’

‘ _I am not gifted_! You’ve seen it with your own eyes! You’ve been watching that competition! For a moment, please, just for a moment forget that you’re my brother and tell me, being absolutely frank, that I’m a talented skater. Or that I’m not.’

Vadim didn’t say a word for a while.

‘Aha. So you want me to give you an answer not as a brother, but as a complete stranger? He asked with a deep sigh. ‘As an athlete?’

The young skater imagined himself standing at the edge of a cliff. Ready for a jump. Ready for death.

‘Yes,’ he answered, trying to make his voice sound more confident, ‘exactly.’

‘Well then, as a complete stranger, as an athlete, I’ll give you the answer…’ Yakov stopped breathing. ‘That you won’t win any competition only with talent. Moreover: you won’t win any competition _alone_. Think about it. Call when you’re done with self-pitying. Oh, and speak to your coach. Bye!’

‘WHAT?! Wait… wait a moment!’

He heard only beeping. His shoulders were shaking in anger.

He hanged up. Holy shit, he hanged up! That great moralizer, his dear brother hanged up in the middle of a very important conversation! How could he, for fuck’s sake?!

With a furious move Yakov pushed the receiver against the stand. The receiver slipped from it and was hanging on a cord. Yakov caught it and tried to put it on the stand once again.

‘FUCK!’

After the third attempt, the receiver was dead. Pieces of plastic fell on the floor. Well, that would be all in the topic of „not destroying the public property”… oops?

The young man rushed out of the telephone box in panic. That was a good decision – only a moment after that, two militiamen came out from behind the corner. They treated Feltsman with suspicious looks when he was passing by. Yakov put his hands in his pockets and left the crime scene, whistling innocently.

After he walked far enough, he sighed and stared in the pavement. Ah, damn it… he’d messed everything up.

 _It wasn’t supposed to be like that,_ he thought in resignation. _That conversation wasn’t supposed to be like that! No, let me make an adjustment. That conversation shouldn’t have ever happened. My CAREER wasn’t supposed to be like that._

Why had he even called his brother in the first place? Well… right, he knew why, but right now he wasn’t sure about anything. Excuse me, but what had he been expecting? That someone would stoke his head gently? Thad he would have been hugged mentally? Or… maybe he had been expecting Vadim to make a decision Yakov had no courage to make? Something like:

‘Hey! What’s up? I’ve figured out recently that I’m no good for anything anymore, so I’ve decided to shoot myself. But, you know, making a decision to end my life scares me a little, so would you be so nice and pull the trigger?’

The younger man snorted quietly. Frankly speaking, he wasn’t the kind of a man who would commit suicide after a lost fight. He would rather be the kind of a man who after loosing all of his limbs not only holds on to life stubbornly, but also crawls through the battlefield and bites enemy’s feet. That was the kind of man that Yakov Feltsman was – the one that fights till the end.

The question was – _how long could he do that_? If you’re a soldier without legs and arms, then sooner or later you won’t avoid death! If you’re a figure skater that hasn’t got anything special to offer, then sooner or later…

Eh… that was the whole problem. Yakov felt, that his „sooner or later” was already there. And he had no idea how to cope with it. Well, Vadim was definitely right about one thing – he certainly had to speak to his coach.

Feltsman intended to head to his mentor’s office before the training session, but he barely passed the door of the Champions’ Club, when something drew his attention. A group of jam-packed young skaters was standing at the rink’s entrance. They put their heads between the door and the wall, whispering something excitedly. Intrigued by the view, Yakov moved in their direction. When he almost reached the door, he heard the music playing behind the door: „Carmen – Habanera”. Soon, he was able to hear pieces of the conversation:

‘She’s even better than Vrzanova.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so! Just look at her Axel… she jumps for at least three feet in the air!’

‘Jeez… if she’s that good, why isn’t she a single skater? It’s a pity to waste that talent in pair skating.’

‘Eh, that’s probably because she’s from acrobat’s family. You know what I mean? I heard that when she started skating, she was pretty good in acrobatics. Maybe that’s why they’ve figured out she’d be better in pairs.’

‘Oh my, look at that spin!’

Starting to get impatient, Yakov speeded up the pace. Who the hell were they talking about?

He finally managed to reach the door. Mumbling swear words, he squeezed in between Igor’s blond hair and Pavlo’s greyish head. The moment he did it, he found out that all the nice words about the skater weren’t even _a tiny bit_ exaggerated. With his eyes wide open as if he’d been hypnotised, Feltsman was watching the show performed at the rink.

The light was dimmed. The sounds of „Carmen” coming from the record player were overlapping with the sound of steel scratching the ice. A woman dressed in a black tracksuit was dancing. Her thick braid was waving in the air, going up and down in perfect rhythm. The blades moved on the surface like they were glued to it; as if some kind of an invisible force attached them to the ice for eternity.

Yakov’s skates never moved like that.

Feltsman swallowed a gulp in his throat. Sometimes when watching other skaters he liked to imagine a glow of light around them.  The average ones who didn’t stand out in any way were surrounded by a pale, light-yellow mist. The artists that were capable of magnificent music interpretations emanated with soothing blue, whereas the ones like Vronkov, the champions of jumping, faced their opponents with an aggressive red gleam.

The light of that woman was different – _unique_. So bright that it was almost dazzling. If Yakov had to choose its colour, it would have been neither blue, nor red – more likely violet. Beautiful, strong, bright violet! A perfect colour for a skater who was both an athlete and an artist. Who was strong and graceful; talented and dangerous. _Versatile_.

When the skater took off for an Axel, Feltsman felt a shiver piercing through his body. His colleague’s earlier claim was right – the lady really jumped for a three feet height! And then landed without an issue. With a facial expression that didn’t show any signs of concentration. The mysterious skater looked like she’d been skating with her head in the clouds. For a moment it seemed to Yakov that he noticed signs on boredom on the beautiful face.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked with his eyes fixed on her.

‘The Club’s new recruit,’ Igor answered with a sigh. ‘Tatyana Lubicheva.’

‘Coach Novak took her under his protection after she’s been kicked out of the Moscow’s _Lenin_ ,’ Oksana whispered excitedly.

Some people whistled in appreciation.

 _The Lenin Club, right?_ Feltsman thought, growing even more intrigued.

High level, indeed. Leningrad’s _Spartan_ , where Vronkov was training, had the same prestige – or maybe a little higher. In such environment, the term „average” wasn’t accepted. To join a club like that, one would have to be on such a high level that individuals like Yakov could only dream of it. Well… a little uplifting aspect was the fact, that once you’re admitted, it’s equivalently hard to leave it. Which brought another question:

‘Why have they kicked her out? They had to be blind if they couldn’t see that she’s in great shape,’ Yakov stated.

 _MORE than in great shape_ , he thought, feeling both amazed and bitter on the fact.

‘Because of Vronkov,’ Oksana sang, leaning her chin on her palm.

‘Vronkov?! What the hell has he got to do with that?’

‘As far as I know, they had a little quarrel before the Worlds. It’s said that she might have cast a curse on him.’

‘She scared Alexei so much that he was terrified and ran to his daddy,’ Igor said, giggling.

‘Cowardly prick,’ Yakov snapped. The rest approved with vigorous nodding.

‘His old man has contacts in _Lenin_ ,’ Igor continued his story in a gloomy voice. ‘He whispered some words to the right people and the girl has been kicked out. Messing with Vronkov always ends like that.’

‘Don’t exaggerate.’ Pavlo rolled his eyes. ‘Yakov called Vronkov a conceited cock a million times, and somehow he hasn’t been kicked out of anywhere. It’s hard to believe that girl has been thrown out of a club only for annoying Vronkov.’

‘I think they’ve been wanting to get rid of her for a long time and they just needed a reason,’ Oksana stated. ‘Having her flippancy in mind, that’s no surprise.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Igor.

‘Haven’t you heard of how they call her? „Lu-beat-cheva?”

‘Ugh,’ Pavlo shrugged. ‘I heard the „Madyana Lubicheva” version…’

At that moment Yakov remembered: ‘Hey, isn’t it by any chance the wench that jumped onto a table, took off her dress and started to dance in her underwear on one of last year’s banquets?’

Oksana giggled. ‘You haven’t recognized her before?’

‘Yakov was the only one that wasn’t impressed with that performance.’ Igor grinned at Feltsman. ‘I was thinking how to sneak to the toilet all the time with my trousers a bit too tight, and he hadn’t even frowned. Yakov, maybe you like guys better?’

‘No, I don’t, you wanker.’ Yakov gave his colleague a look entitled „one more suggestion like that and you earn yourself a punch”. ‘If you’d been living with two witches feeling comfortable enough to walk around your room stripped you’d also be unmoved by tits.’

‘And, by the way…’ Paulo leaned towards Igor’s ear, giggling, ‘it’s not like Yakov is unmoved by _all_ tits. You should know how he looks at one particular ballet dancer…’

‘I’m going to kick your skull so hard that you’ll be unmoved by everything,’ Feltsman warned him in a gloomy voice.

‘Yakov, Yakov, calm down…’ Nadya, who was keeping quiet until that moment, patted her colleague’s shoulder. ‘Boys aren’t saying that to annoy you.’

‘Come on, mate, don’t get angry.’ Pavlo embraced Yakov apologetically. ‘Who am I going to play cards with if you’ll be mad at me?’

‘We have to hold a tournament, guys!’ Igor announced. ‘The season’s ending, after all. We have to celebrate it with a decent game and beer. Are you in, Yakov?’

‘I can’t. I promised Novak that I’ll take care of kids’ class.’ Yakov shrugged at the very thought of little motherfuckers.

‘You have to be more assertive.’ Oksana gave him a sympathetic look. ‘You let the coach to leech you off all the time.’

‘I wouldn’t call it „leeching off”. I get paid, after all.’

‘But that’s a pittance,’ Pavlo remarked timidly.

‘Still, that’s something.’ Yakov shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t even started college. I’m happy to get some money at all.’

‘Well… you’d definitely get much more money out of the bridge.’ Igor winked. ‘Ignore the kids! You need to rest once in a while as well. Before the Worlds you worked so hard that you barely had time for anything. One evening of just relaxing will be good for you.’

Yakov tried to think about it. Maybe they were right? Maybe he needed a rest indeed. But, on the other hand…

He glanced at Tatyana Lubicheva. At her strong legs and slim, fit body. At the way the girl made her moves match the music. He didn’t know that skater. He knew nothing about her. And still, he couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy growing in his heart.

 _She’s got something I’m never going to have,_ he thought. _No matter how much I try, I’ll never even get close to her level. I’ll never have the perfect silhouette or the innate grace. It’s always going to be harder for me. I’m always going to be a step behind, because all the skills I had to learn were given to some peopleint the day of their birth._

Mother Nature wasn’t fair in giving out her gifts. A few pert beaks could twaddle that hard work can compensate the lack of talent, but competing only a few times was enough to show how the reality worked. In the clash of talent versus hard work, talent would most likely win. People like Yakov Feltsman simply did not represent the same species as Tatyana Lubicheva; or Alexei Vronkov.

Realising all that could be fucking depressing.

‘I don’t feel like having a relaxing evening,’ Yakov mumbled with a grimace. ‘I’d rather yell at some kids.’

‘Do as you wish,’ Igor breathed a long sigh. ‘But don’t get depressed, will you? Just one loss doesn’t mean anything yet.’

‘And beside that,’ Pavlo grinned, ‘remember, that you’re not alone. Whatever happens, we are with you! We’re like three Musketeers, right?

Corners of Yakov’s mouth lifted up slightly. ‘Yeah, right. Three Musketeers,’ he nodded.

‘All for one and one for all!’ Igor raised his fist up.

‘And who are you going to fight?’ Oksana giggled. ‘Vronkov?’

‘ _Life_ , woman; _life_ ,’ Pavlo declared passionately. ‘Life is hard! We have to help each other. It’s all about being optimistic. Let’s think about the positives.’

‘Like that no one of us came back from the Worlds injured,’ Nadya said.

‘Exactly!’ Pavlo snapped his fingers. ‘Like Nadyushka says! Let’s appreciate the fact that we’re ending the season without any injuries. Or that no one of us will be assigned to Lu-beat-cheva…

‘By the way, I’m wondering who is she going to be assigned to…’ Igor rubbed his chin.

‘I bet two thousand rubles on Ivanovich!’ Feltsman blurted out without thinking.

‘Aha!’ Pavlo sent him a devilish smile. ‘As always, Yakov’s the first one to bet.’

‘What are we going to do about it?’ Igor fished his wallet out of his pocket. ‘He’s a born gambler. Raise to three thousand on Mishkin.’

‘Mishkin is a bungler,’ Yakov stated flippantly. ‘Ivanovich has experience and skills. He was a thing at the Worlds.’

‘He’s got some trouble doing lifts,’ Igor noted.

‘And Mishkin can’t jump,’ Yakov stroke back. ‘It’s easier to learn the lifts than jumps. I know from my own experience. And that girl is thin as a rake, so he won’t have to make much effort.’

‘Eh, you’re probably right…’

‘Whoever is it going to be,’ Oksana breathed in deeply, ‘he should get himself a rosary. And a helmet. Better to secure yourself against any curses and other… hmm… _nuisances_.

Yakov cast his eye over Tatyana again. The girl wasn’t the only one on the ice anymore. He couldn’t tell when a hive of juniors surrounded her. One boy skated towards her with an expression suggesting he was going to ask her something. When the girl turned around unexpectedly, her braid, tied with a beaded hairband, hit the boy in his face forcefully. His nose started to bleed.

‘Bloody awesome,’ Yakov grunted.

Tatyana put her hands against her cheeks. Saying something roughly like ‘Och, darling, I’m so sorry!’ she grasped his face and pressed it against her chest with all strength. The kid looked like he was about to cry. Feltsman couldn’t blame him.

 _The guy that’ll be skating with her is completely fucked,_ he decided.

 

xXx

 

‘HAAAH?!’

Yakov was standing in the middle of the ice rink, trying to figure out any logical explanation for the situation he was currently facing.

 _Did I forget about damn April Fools?_ he thought desperately. _Is it some kind of a lame prank? A bad dream?! Where the hell am I right now? What am I fucking doing here? And, most importantly… what is SHE doing here?!!!_

He kept blinking continuously, but the view wouldn’t change a bit:

An ice rink. Coach Novak in the middle of the rink. Yakov facing him. And next to Yakov – _Tatyana Lubicheva_! Tatyana; or rather – „Madyana Lu-beat-cheva”! And obviously – in a company of her damn braid and fucking beaded hair band.

 _Just try to hit me with that damn thing; I will shave your head with my own hands!_ Feltsman glanced at the woman’s hair with hatred.

In response, Tatyana winked at him.

_Excuse me? What, for heaven’s sake, is going on here?! Damn, maybe we’re not supposed to skate together, actually? Maybe I’m just to help her training… or something like that…?_

But the coach’s next words left not a shadow of doubt. Mikhail Novak smoothed his favourite green sweater saying „Love Mother Nature!” (Yakov got pissed off every time he read this dumb slogan), adjusted his glasses, ran his fingers through his short, grey hair and said to his pupils with a smile:

‘Therefore, as we all’ve got acquainted, it’s high time we plant a seed of your partnership! Hopefully, it will be flourishing!’

Yakov needed all of his willpower to force himself not to flee from the rink as far as possible. He’d known his coach long enough to get the subliminal message.

 _Holy shit, I knew it!_ he thought in horror. _If he’s nattering about Goddamn seeds already, it’s got to mean that he’s made a decision. Has he gone insane?! He must be out of his tree to get an idea of pairing them together! How a mediocre like me an an ice skating terminator like her are supposed to skate together?! Are you trying to play some fucking joke one me?!_

Well, nothing indicated that someone was joking. Most certainly not the coach. Surprisingly, neither Tatyana. One could think that someone as skilled as her would start to giggle and keep asking why they’ve been paired with a complete failure… Vronkov would do that. Repeat; Vronkov _had done that_ – when he found out he was supposed to skate with Ekaterina Mongetale, he laughed and asked why such a miserable partner was chosen for him. Yes, that’s what he said. And then, he got his arse kicked; by Katerina herself. It’s never come to his mind to complain about his partner ever again. The whole figure skating worlds knew that. No one doubted who was the Alpha male (or rather the Alpha female) in the Wronkov/Mongetale team.

Yakov leered at Tatyana carefully. To him, she looked like she would be an Alpha as well. Judging by the way she was watching him with her sharp, blue eyes, he assumed that she was one of these women who liked to get what they wanted. Feltsman’s sisters had the exact same looks on their witchy faces. Yakov knew very well how to deal with such pissing ladies. The problem was, he wasn’t exactly used to doing so on the ice.

In Feltsmans’ family home everything was clear – there were certain rules and fixed hierarchy. At home, Yakov had power and authority. He knew what to do to force the girls to dance like peacocks. And if any of them would get an idea of talking back, he always had his argument of ‘being older and wiser, therefore being right’.

And here – what he was supposed to say? Tatyana was supposed to do as he says, because… exactly – because what? Because he was a _better_ skater? Ahem. The problem was that he, for fuck’s sake, was _not_ a better skater, to be exact he was a much worse one, and he had no chances to ever get even close to her level – which made the whole situation horribly annoying!

Well, the good thing was that Lubicheva was nothing like Vronkov. Instead of openly making fun of Feltsman, she was simply standing there with her hand on her hip, watching her new partner with curiosity. As if she tried to judge him.

Yakov’s deep thought was interrupted by coach clapping his hands. ‘Okay, then!’ Novak beamed. ‘Now that I’ve explained everything…’

 _What?! This wimp was talking?_ Feltsman was surprised. _Holy shit, I wasn’t listening a bit!_

‘… let’s start the relevant part of your practice! Tell me, my dear… have you learned Yakov’s routine from the previous season as I asked you to do? I’m talking about the free skating programme.’

‘Sure thing.’ Tatyana nodded.

‘That’s wonderful! I don’t have to ask you that question, right, Yakov? Do you remember your own programme?’

‘Err… yes. Yeah, sure, I do.’

‘Great. So, I’d like you to skate that routine. I’ll see how well do you cooperate and I’ll think what should be improved. Skate the whole programme, from the beginning to the end. Take it easy, of course. Don’t push yourselves. That’s not a competition. If something doesn’t work out, don’t get nervous. Think of it as of a handshake at the beginning of your partnership. Rather than focusing on performing a perfect routine, try to get acquianted. That’s the most important thing right now, right? Oh, and one more thing! Save the lifts, okay? That’s the first time you’ll be skating together, so I don’t want anyone to get injured. When there’s a lift planned, just skate through it, and then continue with the choreography. Do you understand me?’

‘Very clearly,’ Tatyana responded with a devilish smile.

Yakov narrowed his eyes. Keeping them on her partner, he took his pose on the ice. He didn’t like her smile; not a tiny bit.

The mood at the ice rink started to resemble one in a bunker. Only the shooting sounds were missing. While Novak was searching through the vinyls for the right record, Tatyana was skating around her new mate. She looked like a vulture getting ready to dig her claws in her prey. Momentarily, she rushed towards Yakov. She was skating so quickly as if she wanted to ram him!

Someone else would probably get scared and jump to the side – but not Feltsman. The malice he was born with was telling him to stay where he was and watch the charging wench with calm.

 _You can skate into me if you wish so!_ he blurted out in his mind. _I’m twice as heavy as you are. I hope you’ll bounce off my body and get that skinny arse bruised!_

Unfortunately, her skinny arse hadn’t got bruised. In fact, she didn’t even skate into Yakov. At the last moment she turned both of her skates to the side like a professional hockey player, stopping a few inches in front of her partner. Some pieces of ice sprinkled over Yakov’s trousers.

_She hasn’t hit me, after all? What a pity…_

He was surprised to see a glipse of admiration in Tatyana’s eyes. Apparently her charge wasn’t a silly prank, but rather some kind of a test. But what was that wench trying to find out? What was her problem?

She didn’t have time to ask, as Novak had found the right record. The song sounds echoed at the ice rink. Yakov and Tatyana started skating.

Pardon – _Yakov_ started skating. Tatyana launched herself into the programme, making the distance between her and her partner too big at the very beginning. Feltsman couldn’t help a comment on that:

‘Slow down, that’s not a race!’ he hissed.

Quite surprisingly, she followed the suggestion and slowed down sharply. Also, she turned her head suddenly, which resulted in her braid hitting Yakov’s ear.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’ Tatyana smiled apologetically.

Feltsman glared at her angrily. He started to have _really bad feelings_ about the skate.

Of course, he fucking had to be right. When Lubicheva turned to face her partner and grasped his hand while having her leg raised high up, she whispered conspiratorially:

‘Let’s do a lift.’

Yakov almost stumbled in surprise.

‘What the _fuck_ did you say?’ he stammered, whispering.

‘You heard me.’ The devilish smile returned to the girl’s face. ‘Let’s do a lift.’

‘Are you nuts?! The coach forbidden us…’

The dangerous suggestion knocked Yakov off his rhythm so much that he almost forgot about the upcoming jump. He barely landed his double toe loop – he had to wave his arms around to save himself from falling down. It _definitely_ didn’t look aesthetic. Tatyana, of course, had no trouble landing.

‘Well done!’ They heard Novak clapping somewhere around. ‘Great jumps. Keep up the good work!’

 _The old fool tries to give us some motivation,_ Yakov thought in resignation. _If it was a competition, I’d probably get some points for good intentions, maybe._

Then it was time for a camel spin. Feltsman did not start doing it at instant – his instinct was telling him to wait and see, what his partner would do. And that was the right choice, because if he hadn’t jumped to the side at the last moment, he would’ve got his arm wounded with a blade.

‘Careful!’ he grunted to Tatyana’s ear when a few seconds later they were skating next to each other. ‘Watch the distance. You were too close!’

‘So, what about the lift?’ she whispered.

‘We’re not doing any lifts!’

‘What’s the matter? Are you scared?’

He hadn’t even got time to feel offended, because at the exact moment his partner grasped his arms and got up in the air. Yakov reacted spontaneously.

 _SHIT!_ Feltsman thought, swinging Tatyana over his head. _Fuck, she surprised me! It shouldn’t have happened… I shouldn’t have LET it happen! How could I… holy shit, she’s so light! Does she even weight anything? Damn, I barely feel I’m holding her!_

His awe didn’t last for long. While making her way back on the ice, the skater hit Yakov’s forehead with her knee.

‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’ Yakov swore. ‘I told you that I _do not agree_! You have to consult such things with me.’

‘But I have consulted it,’ she answered, amused.

Feltsman clenched his teeth. While speaking, they didn’t stop skating even for a moment. For any spectator they would look like two predators fighting for territory.

‘You should consult such things _before_ you start skating,’ Yakov barked. ‘That was _dangerous._ We’re not doing that again.’

For an answer, he once again got hit in his face with Tatyana’s braid. ‘Of course we _are_ ,’ she said in a voice of a spoiled child. He wondered whether she could’ve been an only-child?

‘No, we _are not_!’

And another blow with a braid! Feltsman had a few strands of hair in his mouth. Watching her partner spitting out her hair, Tatyana giggled.

‘I’m warning you…’ Yakov said in a voice he was using when his sisters annoyed him even more than usual, ‘if you try to force me to do a lift once more, you’re going to regret it!’

‘Come on, the previous one was amazing. The other is going to be great as well.’

‘No, it is not, because _we’re not doing any lifts_.’

‘Yes, we are.’

‘For fuck’s sake, are you listening?! It is _dangerous_!’

‘What are you, a lady?’

She crossed the line. Calling him a ‘lady’ was a step too far. Oh nooo, Yakov simply could not just ignore that! He had to show that snot-nosed girl who wears the drawers! Somewhere in the depths of his mind the idea could’ve been called inappropriate and very _indecent_ , but Feltsman couldn’t care less. He’d made the decision.

With her wild and confident look, Tatyana skated towards her partner. When she grasped his arm and went up in the air for another lift, he had a face of a cheerful little girl who’d never heard ‘no’ in her entire life.

 _You don’t agree, my friend?_ her eyes told him. _So what? That’s just another silly antic of mine, because what would life be without any of these; and the fact that one of us could get injured is just a side issue._ ’

She probably assumed that Yakov would be offended and he’d simply stop skating. Or, like before, he’d just react instinctively and execute the element.

But Feltsman did neither of these.

The moment Tatyana was at the right height, instead of carrying on with the lift, he threw the rebellious girl over his shoulder and spanked her skinny buttocks with his spare hand.

Years of practice with his sassy sisters did the right job – it had to hurt as fuck! Even Yakov felt hurt, and he was the one who spanked, not the one who _got_ spanked. For a moment he thought that he’d maxed out a little, because _who in their right mind hits their partner’s arse in the middle of a routine_ , but it was fucking worth it – for Tatyana’s _priceless_ expression. She was so shocked that her eyes almost popped out of her head. And the sound of a hit was absolutely beautiful, clean and freaking amazing; the first-class quality. And the squeak that was probably heard by at least half of Leningrad was even more amazing!

If they’d given medals for raising women and children, Yakov would be a few-times World Champion.

Unfortunately, nothing good ever lasts. In spite of his little moment of glory, Feltsman knew that he had to put Tatyana back on the ice. And then he would find out what would happen next. Eh, the wounded lady was probably going to burst into tears…

 _Well, screw it!_ Yakov was still angry with his partner. _I’ll eat my skates if she didn’t fucking deserve that! If she’s crying, I won’t be sorry for her!_

But she did not cry. More surprisingly – she didn’t even look offended! Well… yes, she was _shocked_ and she was gaping at Feltsman with her eyes wide as if she’d been a character in one of these dumb Disney’s films, but still… she did not look like she minded what her partner had done! And that was completely _incomprehensible_ for Yakov, as he wasn’t used to people reacting in that way after they’d been hit by him.

He also couldn’t help his admiration. After being hit _that_ hard on your buttocks, all the Salchows and spins most certainly must’ve been quite unpleasant. Yet Tatyana performed all the elements _perfectly_ and managed to skate with the beat on point! Well, of course, she had a little grimace on her face, but still she made no mistakes.

And – most importantly – she stopped forcing the lifts.

 _Where has all of her excitement gone?_ Yakov wondered spitefully when they omitted that element. _You’re not so reckless anymore, huh? You don’t feel like jumping up on my head? Next time when you will want to force something on me, you will think twice!_

SMACK!

Well… Tatyana might have given up forcing difficult elements, but her goddamn hair still hit her partner’s face regularly.

 _She can’t adapt to another person’s movements at all!_ Feltsman assumed.

After being hit in his face for the upteenth time he realised that the whole braid thing was unintended indeed. Lubicheva wasn’t trying to hit her partner. She just _completely wasn’t able to feel the distance_. She was a part of a team, but she behaved as if she was a single skater. Everything she did, she did in her own time – like she’d been assuming that Yakov would be the one to get adapted.

And that was where the problem was. Most of the ‘braid incidents’ (and other missteps, such as nudging oneselves with  elbows or bumping their hips) were results of either Tatyana’s thoughtlessness, or Feltsman’s desperate attempts to keep up with his partner.

But he couldn’t. He wasn’t able to. With every second of the routine he was feeling more convinced of what he’d known since the beginning – the gap between them was _too_ huge. No matter how hard Yakov tried, he was falling behind _anyway_.

No… there was no use in trying. That simply _could not_ work! That programme wouldn’t be fine for a girl who’d have been at least a _a bit_ reasonable, much less for someone who not only was mentally still in primary school, but moreover showed no willingness to cooperate. After the twelfth attack by the braid, the young man was praying for the programme to end.

And then… as if it was not enough, as if Yakov wasn’t already exhausted, ragged and hackly, Lubicheva did something absolutely incredible. Something that Feltsman had never seen before! Something that would make countless people sink into the floor and reconsider how much they really knew about figure skating.

In the last ten seconds of the routine, the man was doing a spread eagle while skating around his partner, who was spinning. It was supposed to be a simple, plain sit spin. But Tatyana did something entirely different. She entered the spin, and then she bent her body and reached with her hand for one of her feet, grasped the blade and while still spinning… she raised her foot over her head.

Yakov stopped breathing.

 _Holy shit, she raised her foot over her head in a middle of a spin!_ he thought in shock, awe and terror. _She raised a damn foot over her head! Holy fuck, she almost did a split!_

What was that supposed to be? What _on earth_ was that supposed to be?! Was something like that even _possible_? Fuck, he felt like he’d been watching ice skating _science-fiction_!

The music (Thank you, dear God!) finally stopped. After the programme’s end Tatyana rubbed her buttocks.

‘Jeez…’ she said with a hint of recognition. ‘I think I’m going to have a bruise in the shape of your hand on my butt.’

‘You’re lucky it wasn’t a belt!’ Yakov barked.

He wanted to add to the fire, but he was interrupted with a snort. Shit, _Novak_! Damn, what was the coach going to say? Feltsman completely forgot about the man.

One of the old man’s hands was resting on the boards, and the other was hiding his face. So Yakov wasn’t wrong – Novak was really laughing out loud.

 _He’s laughing?_ The young man thought with outrage. _All of that was FUNNY to him?!_

‘Yakov, I’m sorry…’ the coach said, wiping a tear. ‘That slap of yours just _wrecked_ me.

Feltsman got read all over his face rapidly. He didn’t regret spanking her partner, but as required by good manners, he should at least apologise.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured to Tatyana. ‘I got carried away a little.’

‘That’s fine.’ To his surprise, the girl smiled. ‘You were right: that was quite dangerous. If someone is to apologise, that would be me. I will do so the moment when… ouch! The moment when my booty gets over that close encounter with your hand.’

 _I wonder how much time will I need to get over the close encounter with her hair?_ Feltsman thought, rubbing a bruise on his cheek. _Fuck, the next time we’ll be practising together, I’m going to get a rubber band and make a solid bun out of that nappy hair!’_

Assuming, of course, that there would be any other practice. Well, after the unfortunate skate nobody was in doubt that that arrangement made completely no sense? Right…?

‘So, what do you think, my dear?’ the coach said to Tatyana.

‘Well… I haven’t thought I’d admit it, but I think you were right.’ The girl moved a few stands from over her forehead.

Novak beamed.

‘I told you!’ He clapped his hands cheerfully. ‘I _told_ you that you’d like him.’

‘Yeah, now I get what did you mean.’ Tatyana had a thoughtful look on her face for a while, and then she grinned happily and pointed at Yakov. ‘I like him. I want to skate with him.’

_What the FUCK?!_

Yakov got simply stuck. Wait… wait a moment! No, something was very wrong! All of that made absolutely NO sense. ESPECIALLY that girl’s behaviour. She got fucking smoked and as an outcome she claims that… she ‘likes him’ and ‘wants to skate with him’?! Was she a masochist or something like that?

_Okay, Feltsman, let’s focus… are you completely sure that it’s not the first day of Aplil today?_

What could be any other explanation for all of that? April Fools. A silly joke. Some wild experiment. One of these foolish TV programmes that focus on pranks on oblivious people. Or simply… his coach being desperate, having no idea what to do with his temperamental student? But in that case, why would Novak be so happy? And why does Tatyana look like she was _positively surprised_ by her new partner’s behaviour? And – most importantly – why does Yakov feel like he was the only one who did not understand what was happening _at all_?!

‘Speaking of the routine…’ the coach started, ‘it was rather good. You did better than I expected you to do.’

 _Rather good?!_ Feltsman shouted in his mind. _I got hit on my face several times, and he says that we’ve skated „rather good”?! For fuck’s sake, I looked like I’d come back from war! And what is „better than I supposed you to do” supposed to mean?! Pardon me, but what did he expect? Fatalities?!’_

Well, maybe it actually was possible – speaking of fatalities. If Yakov hadn’t had stopped  his risky friend on time… who apparently was absolutely not deterred from doing dangerous things.

‘The routine was okay, but I would change some jumps,’ she declared in a confident voice. ‘Salchow is good for killing time. I’d like to learn jumping Lutz.’

 _Lutz?!_ Yakov felt like yelling. _I barely manage to get full rotations in my toe loops, and you’re talking about Lutz?!’_

‘And I wouldn’t mind some more energetic music,’ she added, smiling. ‘Don’t you think, Jackie?’

‘Not Jackie, I’m Yakov,’ he hissed, glaring at her furiously.

 _That’s not even a variant of my name!_ he thought with anger.

‘Whatever. So what are we doing, mister coach? Can we get a faster song?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Novak was as much excited as Lubicheva. ‘But before I arrange your meeting with a choreographer, you have to go over a few of the basics. I want you two to skate together for at least a month before you start learning new routines.’

 _A month?!_ Feltsman hoped that he overheard. _We’re supposed to get used to one another in a mere MONTH?! Fuck, I doubt a year would be enough!_

The longer he was a part of all of it, the more confused he felt. Nevermind these two thousands he’d bet on Ivanovitch. Nevermind the fact he was supposed to be skating with a wench who was like a Zamboni with turbo-changer flame blower instead of brakes. Nevermind all of that! He’d done lots of things in his life. Teaching a reckless girl some self-control couldn’t be that difficult.

But why everyone except Yakov were oblivious to _the most important issue_? Because, despite appearances, the biggest issue was not Tatyana’s difficult nature. It wasn’t. The problem was _the gap_ between Feltsman’s and Lubicheva’s skills.

If only the gap was at least small. Or even big. But it was neither small, neither big – it was _drastic_! How Feltsman, the man who’d been learning basic sit spin for eternity, was supposed to compare himself to a person who could raise her foot over her _head_?

And he didn’t mean that skating with that girl would make Yakov supercritical about himself (he already _was_ , so it made no difference to him). In the first place, he wouldn’t feel _fair_ about skating with Tatyana. He still couldn’t get why did she agree to something like that, without complaining. Didn’t she think that being in a team with a little man like Yakov wouldn’t give her any benefits? Was it because she was kicked out of _Lenin_? Maybe she was desperate, just like Feltsman was? Ready for everything, just to save her career screaming in agony?

The young man swallowed a gulp in his throat. Was it really all they could do? _Madness_? Was it how the last resort of figure skaters who fucked up the Worlds or were thrown out of prestigious clubs looked like? If the traditional methods _did not work_ , could they only try out something crazy and unusual?

Yakov glanced at the coach, silently begging the old man to explain it all. To clarify what did he mean, slowly and carefully.

But Novak didn’t say anything. He was just standing and looking at his students with a wide smile.

 _Well, let’s hope he knew what he’s doing,_ Feltsman thought, shaking his head. _The only thing I can do is to trust that man. Maybe it won’t be that bad?_

 

xXx

 

It wasn’t bad – it was _horrible_. Lame, shitty, _gruesome_!

Four months had passed… four fucking long months, and all that Tatyana and Yakov had managed was not bumping into each other during choreographic sequences. All the rest was a damn _chaos_. A chaos written with a capital ‘C’. For Christ’s sake, the season’s beginning was right around the corner, and they _still_ hadn’t finished their routines!

And that was mostly Tatyana’s fault, who was constantly trying to improve things that didn’t need to be improved. But also Yakov’s, who couldn’t tell her ‘no’. Or rather – he could, but he _didn’t want to._ And he didn’t want to because he thought that him being a mediocre shouldn’t be a reason to give up trying difficult elements. Feltsman’s team mates said that it was stupid of him and that he was stubborn as a mule and a masochist. But Feltsman believed he was just being _fair_ with his more talented partner.

 _Whatever happens, I won’t be a burden,_ he promised himself after the memorable first practice with Lubicheva. _I may not be quite talented, but that does not give me right to hold her back. If Tatyana for some reason had decided to skate with a mediocre like me, I will pay her back by doing my best!_

Well, despite making promises, Yakov soon found out that he couldn’t always keep them. It was partly due to the fact that some of Lubicheva’s suggestions basically equaled suicide, or were fucked up and completely dumb (‘I’d sooner kiss Vronkov on his mug than agree to do a death spiral while holding your legs’). Yet it was _mostly_ because Yakov’s body wasn’t cooperating with his good intentions (‘If you don’t know yet, woman, that loud crunch was most probably the sound of my coccyx breaking, so would you kindly stop bugging me about including a Lutz in the programme!!!’).

In effect, every next week looked exactly the same: the young man everyday would come back to his room shared with Igor and Pavlo being so tired, that one would think he’d been rolling around the ice rather than skating (which wasn’t that far from the truth); and then he’d _literally_ wallow in the ice (read: jump into a tub full of ice in order to heal the remnants of his body); and then, glowering at his roommates with _death cold_ eyes, he’d throw himself on his bed. In the morning he’d come to the practice, think up some reason why Tatyana was late to avoid her being scolded by the coach, and when the carefree missy would come around, Feltsman would wait for the coach to look away and scold the annoying lady _himself_ for making out with whoever was around and being lazy, to which Lubicheva would respond with yawning and picking her nose.

But the tiring routine was tolerable. That wasn’t the worst thing. The worst one was the voice in Yakov’s head, telling him that all he’d been doing had no point at all, that the progress he’d been achieving with Lubicheva was not important and that if that amazing skater would’ve been working with someone like Ivanowich or Mishkin, it would be so much better for her.

Mishin – an experienced twenty-year-old. Ivanowitch – ex single skater who decided to try out pair skating. Why neither of them was skating with Tatyana? Why _Yakov_ was?

Once, Yakov decided he was full of all that. He refused to spend another day on decorating his body with new bruises! He at the very least had to know why he’d been doing that in the first place…

He stopped in front of his coach’s office and banged on the door. It was a high time for him to get some explanation!

‘Yes?’ a man behind the door chirruped.

The room that Novak took for his office resembled a miniature botanical garden. The moment Yakov entered the room, he shrugged, smelling a decent number of some exotic flowers. The room was submerged in green colour – it was on the shelves, on the ledges, on the floor… Feltsman would bet that if one they there was not enough place in the room for another plant, Novak would put one on his own head. Duh, that man was just nuts for plants! A damn amateur botanist…

Seeing Yakov, the old man’s eyes brightened up. The coach put his watering can aside hurriedly. ‘Pardon me for a moment,’ he said, raising his pointing finger up.

He seated himself behind the desk, extended his arms, closed his eyes and smiled blissfully. Feltsman raised his eyebrows.

‘Erm… excuse me, but what are you doing?’

Fuck, the old fool couldn’t have been huffing anything weird, could he? But, Yakov wondered… who knew what plants were growing in all these pots of his? Maybe the whole office was a disguised marijuana plantation? That would explain why the coach was always walking around being so cheerful.

‘I’m enjoying the moment,’ Novak whispered. ‘The historical moment for the _Champions’ Club_! Yakov Felsman, who’d never been complaining about anything, has come to my office to complain. Oh, my dear boy! If only you’d known how long I’ve been waiting for this moment.’

Yakov rolled his eyes. _Well… he isn’t high, at least._

The coach finally stopped making his strange, meditative kind of pose. He looked at his student earnestly, wrapping his hands on the top of the desk.

‘It’s about Tatyana, I believe?’ he asked gently. ‘She’s done a number on you, right? Before you say anything, remember that you’ve been skating together only for a couple of months. When you get to know her better, you will see that she’s full of assets.’

For Yakov, Tatyana’s only asset was her best friend, Lilia Baranovskaya. At the simple thought of the beautiful ballet dancer, Yakov’s cheeks blushed.

The young man shook his head angrily. ‘I haven’t come here to complain,’ he stated with a deep sigh. ‘Some child’s quirks are not enough to push my buttons.’

‘Oh, she’s not quite a child.’ Novak waved his hand. ‘Yakov, you’re only two years older than her!’

‘Physically, yes. But I assure you that if we take into account her _mental_ age, the gap is _much bigger_ than just two years.’

‘Well, it’s difficult not to agree…’

Yakov took a seat next to his coach. The old man reached for a teapot, but Feltsman shook his head.

‘I haven’t come here to complain,’ he repeated what he said earlier. ‘That’s true, Tatyana has… hmm… difficult character…’ _To put it mildly._ ‘…but that’s not what I wanted to talk about. It’s not about her.’

‘Aha? Then what’s your problem, dear boy?’

‘My own predispositions.’

The coach fixed his eyes on his desk for a moment, and then went back to look at Yakov. ‘Continue,’ he asked politely.

Feltsman opened his mouth and just when he was about to start speaking, he hesitated. He had a _deja vu_. Hadn’t he gone through a conversation like this already? But with whom? And when could it be?

Ah… right! Four months ago! Four months ago, he was talking about this with Vadim. On the same day, he saw Tatyana for the first time. Yakov remembered his brother telling him to talk to his coach. And the young skater planned to do so, but because of all the fuss about Lubicheva he’d completely forgotten about that.

 _Well,_ he laughed in his thoughts, _I am talking to the coach RIGHT NOW. Better late than never._

‘I think that the whole situation is horribly unfair to Tatyana,’ he said, looking in Novak’s eyes. ‘She’s an amazing skater. I’d say she’s a genius. The way she’s skating… the rate at which she’s learning new things… all these things… all of that… for me, it’s something out of this world! And, frankly speaking… eh… I wouldn’t really mind, because thanks to Tatyana I’m learning a bunch of new stuff… and even though she annoys me as hell, I like her in my own way, because she knows what she wants which is a huge advantage in the sports’ world, but…’

Yakov paused, wondering how to put his thoughts in words.

‘But?’ the coach asked.

‘…but don’t you think that it would be better for Tatyana to skate with someone more experienced? With Mishkin, or with Ivanovich?’

‘You think they’d manage through it?’ Novak asked, amused. ‘You think they’d be able to keep her from hurting herself? You think they wouldn’t run off screaming into the night after getting hit with her hair for the fifth time?’

Yakov scratched his ear. Well… actually… right, he didn’t think about that.

‘At least they wouldn’t pull her back,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Hmm… are you pulling her back?’ The coach pressed his pointing finger to his lips, observing his student.

‘I’m rather sure about it,’ Feltsman mumbled.

‘Why would you be pulling her back?’

‘Because _I don’t have talent_!’

Novak was silent for a while.

‘Why do you think so?’

Yakov clenched his teeth. He felt that he’d been losing his patience.

‘What do you mean „Why”?’ Both of his fists banged the table. ‘You’re my coach! You must’ve seen how am I skating! I’m the worst one at basically everything… everything is so much more difficult for me. Jumps, spins, steps! I’m such a slow study! Well, I may be not that bad at lifts, but that’s not enough.’

Lifts were the only trump card Yakov ever had. As he had carried shit tons of carton boxes as a young lad, swinging skinny ladies over his head wasn’t that difficult. But – just as Feltsman said himself – that was _not enough_.

The coach remained stoical during his student’s outburst. The glint in Yakov’s green eyes (which should’ve been labelled as a ‘look of an outraged bull’) made _everyone_ willing to flee as they saw it. One of the novices admitted that if he’d have been a torreador, he’d much rather use his red rag to tease a 600-pound bull than ‘the Couch’s assistant, that scary monster, Mister Feltsman’. _Nobody_ could stand being pierced by Yakov’s ices without a clenching feeling in their stomach. With an exception of Novak. Well, and maybe Tatyana, but he didn’t count the ones without their survival instinct…

Yakov had to admit that in some way he admired the Buddhist peace of his coach’s spirit (subconsciously he hardly could believe it was achieveable without the help of some drugs), but he had moments when he’d rather have his coach simply yell at him. If he’d set the record straight, just like any other teacher, by saying either ‘You’re talented’ or ‘You have no talent’. ‘You rule’ or ‘You suck’. ‘You’re a genius’ or ‘You’re a disaster’.

He’d rather Novak would simply tell him whether he was fit for skating, or whether he should’ve fucked off rightaway.

There were many coaches who would do that. But Novak was not a one. He couldn’t do that. Whatever he did, whatever advice he’d give, he never saw things only in ‘black’ and ‘white’. For him, there always were two sides to the coin. Vronkov pointed this out as the reason why _Champions’ Club_ skaters rarely made their way up to the podium; that because of chasing the meaningless ‘other side of the coin’ Misha Novak had no guts to carry out the ‘natural selection’ and give up coaching the hopeless competitors. Yakov, being loyal to his coach, would bark that Novak was a wise man. But he rather meant to fuss back at Vronkov than actually believed what he was saying.

Right then he didn’t believe that. He was just angry. And impatient. The annoying old man hadn’t said a word for over a minute.

‘Figure skating is not only about jumps, spins, steps and lifts,’ Novak said, finally.

 _So what is it about?_ Yakov wanted to ask.

He didn’t have time, as Novak spoke up first: ‘Tell me, how do you understand the word „talent”?’

The young man raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?’

‘At the first thought, yes. But I’d like to hear your definition. And you should have one, right? I heard you’ve applied to college. You’re going to a Sports Academy, aren’t you?’

 _Ugh, right,_ Feltsman thought, resigned.

He wasn’t sure where it was heading, so he said the first thing that came into his mind: ‘Well then, so „being talented” means… Eee… well… well, that… you’re good at something. We say that someone’s talented when they can achieve something easier and faster than others.’

‘Okay…’

To Yakov’s dismay, his coach put a fern on the desk.

 _Oh, God, please, no; only not another biological metaphor!_ he whined.

‘Tell me the features of this fern,’ Novak asked, smiling cheerfully.

Feltsman gave him a dirty look. ‘Don’t try to embarrass me. You know very well that I’m no good at the botanics.’

‘Just tell me whatever comes to your mind! As the common sense tells. Come on, Yakov… think of a fern’s features.’

Yakov snorted. He crossed his arms in hope that his body language said what he was thinking of such psychological chitchat-shitchat.

‘It grows everywhere, it’s quite common, it needs lots of water and it’s… well…’ he tried to show what he meant by stretching his arm, ‘flexible?’

‘Exactly.’ Novak clapped his hands. ‘So we can say that flexibility is a fern’s talent, right?’

‘Err… yes?’

‘Okay then. What will you say about a cactus?’

The coach picked a spiky plant and placed it on the desk, next to the fern. Yakov watched him with embarrassment.

‘Are you fucking serious?’ He glared at the old man with plea.

‘Language.’ Novak lectured him with a finger, blowing raspberries.

‘Sorry. Okay, so… err… a cactus.’ He tried to remember of everything he knew about the spiky representatives of the flora. ‘Cactuses’ features. A cactus can be found only in several places in the world, so you could say it’s very rare. It doesn’t need that much water, or rather it hardly even needs any water, or rather it hardly needs anything; I know that because a friend of mine has got that thing and he doesn’t do anything around it, and that stuff still grows like it’s gone mad, so I think that thing is just unmoved by anything. Oh, and the bloody thorns. If you touch them, you can go mad.’

‘I wouldn’t have said it better myself.’ The coach shrugged slightly. ‘So we can say that making an effective use of whatever comes around and making difficult conditions working for it are the talents of a cactus, am I right?’

‘Let’s say so.’

‘Okay, Yakov… and now comes the thousand points question: _what_ is more talented, a fern or a cactus?’

Yakov felt an extra pint of blood running through his veins. Holy fuck, even Sokrates didn’t ask _that_ stupid questions! Feltsman was annoyed at his coach exactly as much as he was at his Russian teacher when she asked him to explain the famous phrase ‘I only know that I know nothing’.

‘How am I supposed to answer that?’ Yakov yelled, waving his arms around. ‘That’s dumb! How am I supposed to say which of these plants is better, if we’re talking about two different species?!’

Novak snapped his fingers with a facial expression that would make it hard not to add a caption saying ‘Eureka!’.

‘ _Exactly_! And that’s the very essence of what I wanted to talk to you about!’

Feltsman, who was getting ready to yell some more, froze in a stupid pose, with his mouth wide open.

_Err… what? An essence?_

‘There are millions of different people with millions of different talents,’ the old man said slowly, keeping his eyes on the desk. ‘Everyone has a gift. Something that could’ve been called an insignificant trait can be used as a weapon, if one can exploit it to its furthest.’

‘And what is that trait of mine that i should be exploiting?’ he asked urgently. ‘We agreed that I’m bad at everything except from the lifts. Maybe I have some hidden talents, but in all things that _are important_ in skating, I’m rather mediocre.’

‘There’s one more think you keep forgetting about. A think that’s freaking important in figure skating. Or… at least in pair skating.’

He wondered what that thing was? The only talent Yakov could think of was teensitting Tatyana. Oh, and making a fool of himself in front of Lilia Baranovskaya. He could’ve got a damn PhD in that.

‘What’s that thing?’ He started to feel quite intrigued.

He expected Novak to simply give him a word. He expected that he’d tell him about some universal virtue that ninety-nice per cent of the world’s population had and that he’d try to convince his student with some philosophical speech that the said advantage is very useful in the sport of figure skating. But, to Yakov’s great surprise, the old man said:

‘I’ve been coaching figure skaters for twenty years, ten of which I’ve spent coaching at _Champions’ Club_. I beg you won’t believe me if I say that I heard a great number of complaints in my life. There’s never been a week without any moaner loitering around my office to complain about something or someone. ‘Mister Novak, Iosif did this!’, ‘Mister Novak, Mashenka did that!’, ‘Xenia is dumb!’, ‘Ygrekov is an arsehole’, and so on. There are complaints about _everybody_ in this club. There are problems with _everyone_. Except from one person. There’s just one person in the whole club who never, ever, not even once, was complained about. There’s just one guy who everyone likes. Do you know who that person is?’

‘The caretaker?’

‘That’s _you_ , Yakov.’

The young man’s jaw dropped in surprise.

 _Ugh… me?_ he wondered, scratching his head. _Really? I’m swearing my tongue off and demolishing halls everyday and no one ever complained about me? Interesting…_

‘You’re a middle child, right?’ Novak asked gently. ‘You’ve got both older and younger siblings?’

‘That’s right. I’ve got an older brother and two younger sisters.’

‘I’ve read an article about „middle children” recently. According to psychologists they’re most likely to be successful with people-to-people contacts. They’re not allowed to do as much as the eldest siblings; and they don’t expect to be treated lightly like the youngest are. They need to constantly adapt to their surroundings sice they’re little. They’re never their parents’ pupils. They grow up thinking that their main role is to stand aside and take care of the chaos unleashed by the rest of the family. That’s why the middle children are the _least confrontational_ people in the world.

Yakov snorted. Right, all of that was quite true… except from one detail.

‘If I’m not confrontational, then Stalin was an Apostle,’ he mumbled, making duckface.

Novak giggled. He granted his student with a half scolding, half affectionate look – in a way that a lenient grandfather would look at his naughty grandson.

‘You’re temperamental, Yakov,’ he admitted, winking at him knowingly. ‘You always say what you think without beating around the bush. But that doesn’t mean you’re confrontational… they mean that you’re straightforward. And at our times… at times when everybody lies to each other and pretend to be someone else, being frank and straightforward is something to be _prized_. How do you think, why do your teammates like you so much? Why nobody complains about you? Because you’re not talking about them behind their backs! If you’ve got a problem, you go to the person you’ve got problem with and you lay all your cards on the table. Moreover, you’re fair, tolerant, loyal and they can always count on you.’

‘It’s very nice of you to say that… but I can’t see how is it related to figure skating or talent?’

Right then the coach was the one starting to be impatient.

‘Yakov… the ability to act with other people, to influence their decisions, to rise up their motivation _is a kind of a talent_ ,’ he emphasized, looking at his student with eyes screaming „Dear God, just let him understand what I’m trying to say!”. ‘A talent which can’t be underestimated!’

Yakov’s eyes widened. The young man’s hands, up to that moment clenched into fists, finally loosened up. Feltsman was staring at his outspread fingers like he’d seen them for the first time ever.

Influencing other people? Getting them motivated? So that was a talent _as well_? Yakov had never seen it that way before. And was he _really_ good at that?

‘Let’s think about Tatyana right now…’ Novak continued. ‘Let’s assume she’s a cactus. She doesn’t have to work that hard to gain benefits from everything that surrounds her. There’s no jump she wouldn’t learn to jump and no spin she wouldn’t be able to perform. She’s like a cactus that needs ten times less water than any other plant; she needs ten times less time to teach herself whatever she needs to be able to do. Would you agree?’

Feltsman’s heart gave a one – only one – short beat of jealousy.

‘Yeah, I agree,’ he said hesitantly.

For some reason he knew that he shouldn’t let any bitterness get into him. Something was telling him to listen carefully to what he was going to hear. That it might be the most important thing he would hear; not only right then, but in his entire life.

‘But…’ Novak’s voice suddenly became quieter and sadder, ‘there’s one more feature of cactuses, quite an important one. And most people seeing a cactus spot that exact feature, before noticing anything else. If they even _would_ notice anything else.’

The coach’s finger touched one spike carefully.

‘Thorns?’ Yakov guessed.

‘That’s right.’ The old man sighed loudly. ‘In the world of competitive sport, cactuses are real treasures. There are very few people able to learn something with their will… with such an ease as if they’ve been born to be doing that. There can be one person with such a talent in a whole generation of athletes. And there’s hardly ever any use made of that person’s talent. These unfortunate thorns are the reason… tell me, do you think that it’s easy for Tatyana? Do you think that her life is easy?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly! And now, listen to me… the lone fact that you said „no” with no hesitation… that you came here _not to_ complain about the thorns, but to point out you being inferior compared to the cactus… all of that makes you an amazing, unique person. You’re an example of a magnificent and very rare fern.’

Novak finished his speech by smiling at his student and petted lovingly a bent leaf of said plant.

‘Well, that’s right, but me being a fern _doesn’t make_ the gap between me and Tatyana any smaller!’ Yakov barked out, turning his eyes away from Novak. ‘The thing you’ve just said only confirmed what I was talking about. I am _too weak_ to be skating with that girl. Don’t you think that cactuses should be skating with other cactuses, and by analogy, ferns with other ferns?’

‘I admit I used to think like that.’ His coach nodded, stroking his chin with his thumb. ‘That’s why I’d been making you skate with girls much older than you. You’ve always been very mature, even as a kid. Well… of course, you have your moments of weakness. You know, like tearing off toilet seats… destroying swings… spanking people… the posters…’

‘NOT A WORD ABOUT THE POSTERS!’ Yakov yelled with his face turning bright red.

Novak raised his hands as a gesture of defence, ‘Okay, we won’t be talking about the posters.’ Looking at his student apologetically, he wiped some sweat off his brow. ‘It was a… ehh… a _traumatic_ experience for me as well as for you. But you know, apart from the toilets and the posters, you’ve always been very mature. I always thought that by choosing you partners who were similar to you in this way, I was doing you a favour. But after the last competition I realised how wrong I was. I’ve been thinking for a long time, what have I done wrong? Only after I went to USA I’ve opened my eyes.’

‘You’ve been to USA?’ Feltsman expressed his respect with a short whistle. ‘Were you allowed to by the authorities?’

‘I have my connections,’ the old man admitted, sticking out his chest a little. ‘But, nevermind… When I’ve been in the States, I attended a very fascinating lecture. Americans are indeed very knowledgeable, did you know that? Obviously they have their drawbacks… you know, like rushing to psychotherapist while they’re feeling a little blue and so on… but when it comes to managing people, they’re a very wise nation. They learn the hard way, but they come to very outstanding conclusions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Yakov, do you know Alexei Vronkov?’

While Yakov was being asked that question, he was playing with a pen that was lying on the desk. The desk survived. The pen wasn’t that lucky.

‘No, I have no _fucking_ idea who he could be.’ That’s how a nineteen-year-old from Russia set a new world record in the amount of sarcasm that could be squeezed into one sentence.

Obviously, the real response would sound roughly like that:

_Yes, mister coach, as you know very well I’ve met that wanker several years ago. We’ve met each other at a camp in Moscow and we hated each other at first sight. He’s very talented, but he’s also a lazy rascal, while I’m not quite talented, but I’m the master of hardwork. We like betting each other. Sometimes he’s the one to win, sometimes I am, but most of the times he is. That utter cock is my greatest rival, so I take our bets very serious, even if all the fuss is about something completely dumb or messed up and dangerous, like the posters – I still remember well the Committee for State Security officials coming to the rink. But I won’t be talking about that because just thinking about that incident makes me feel like wetting my pants, so I don’t want to remind myself of it even more. But of course the blame lies with that prick, because it was his idea, and basically all evil in the world is his fault, including communism, unemployment, Tatyana’s beaded hair band and the fact that I’ve got ink all over my hand right now!_

Yakov hoped that all that he’d just thought of could be asily read out of his eyes, because the perspective of repeating it out loud _pissed him off_.

The coach chuckled. ‘Tell me, why does Vronkov always win?’ he asked, handing his student a tissue.

‘Because he’s skating with Katerina,’ Yakov answered instantly.

‘Are you sure that’s the right answer?’

The young man stopped wiping the ink off the desk to give the old man a drawn look.

Yes, he was pretty damn sure. He wasn’t sure about loads of things in his life, but in that case he had not _a single_ doubt.

Feltsman smirked. He thought he should make a correction to his earlier thoughts on Vronkov – that wanker used to be a lazy rascal. But since he started skating with Katerina, he was not anymore. It’s funny how a mere thought of a possibility of losing one’s testicles could make a person so motivated for hard work… and if one was to believe the things said by the _Spartan_ ’s skaters that was the kind of threats Vronkov heard before each practice. Eh, If only that punk wasn’t so full of himself, Yakov could even have felt sorry for him.

‘That’s the only answer I can think of that would make sense,’ Yakov said.

‘See!’ Novak’s pointing finger raised up triumphantly. ‘I got you! You said what you did, when you could’ve said that it’s because Vronkov has a talent!’

‘Okay, then.’ Yakov shrugged his shoulders. ‘I change my answer, then. It’s because he’s skating with Katerina and because he has a talent. You can’t convince me that his talent isn’t an important matter…’

‘I don’t intend to do so. But Vronkov doesn’t skate his routines by himself. As you have pointed out, he’s skating with Ekaterina. And what are you going to say about her, Yakov? Do you think she’s also talented? Do you think she has any gift when it comes to jumps or spins?’

Feltsman tried to think of everything he knew about Ekaterina Mongetale. Everyone reached an agreement about her loathsome half-Italian, half-Russian temperament – that that horrifying devil must’ve been an incarnation of Catherine the Great or even Stalin himself. But was she talented? Well…

‘I’d rather say no,’ Yakov said after a while. ‘But she’s working hard. And she’s got an unbelievable stamina.’

‘But that doesn’t make her a genius skater,’ Novak stressed out. ‘If we’d look only at her predispositions, there’s a huge gap between Ekaterina and Alexei, don’t you think? A gap such as the one between you and Tatyana.’

The young man needed a second to process the last statement of his coach. It had never come across his mind to compare Katerina and Alexei with Tatyana and him. The difference in style of both teams was huge. It was like comparing impressionism with cubism. On the other hand… if one would speak only on the skills of the members of both teams… then maybe his coach was a bit right?

‘Where are you heading with that?’

‘I’m trying to tell you,’ Novak began, stressing every syllable, ‘that a fern will always make great friends with other ferns. And that a cactus can be understood only by an another cactus. But when trying to see the bigger picture, two ferns can’t learn a lot from one another. Neither can two cactuses. What can you possibly learn from a person who is exactly the same as you are? What use can you make of features that you already have?

Yakov kept staring at the cactus. Feltsman had no idea how it could be possible, but somehow… somehow it all made sense. That huge, weird metaphor he didn’t want to listen to… that he thought would bring him no use at all… which he took for an another dumb, messed up lecture… actually, it had opened his eyes. He finally noticed _how much_ he and Tatyana were different.

He might have known that before, but back then he was taking mostly their _skills_ into account. But he totally ignored the fact that…

Feltsman inhaled sharply. He heard in his mind the words that Vadim told him four months ago:

_You won’t win any competition only with talent. Moreover: you won’t win any competition alone._

Tatyana couldn’t win because she couldn’t _cooperate with her partner_. Yakov _could_ cooperate. He couldn’t win because his style lacked originality, uniqueness and that thing that made spectators scream: ‘Wow!’. Tatyana had all these things. Shit. So it was all about that…

‘You and Tatyana are different, so you both have a lot to offer to one another,’ Novak said out loud the thought that was being processed in Yakov’s head. ‘I don’t want you to think it’s going to be easy. Even if you become friends one day, you will always stay a cactus and a fern. Nothing can change a person’s true nature. Nothing, do you understand? Not hard work, not time, not maturity, not even coercion. You can try saddling up a pig, you can even try teaching the poor thing to pull a wagon, but it will always be a pig, no matter what you’d do. Just like a horse won’t be feeling comfortable in a pigsty, even if you’d try to convince it that the mud would make it healthy and joyful and so on.

Feltsman shrugged. ‘You know… I’d rather stick to cactuses and ferns.’

‘Sorry, I got carried away a little,’ the old man said apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sure he did. He’d better stay away from pigs and horses! But well… about the rest…

Yakov raised up. ‘Okay, let’s assume you are right,’ he mumbled, putting his hands inside his pockets. ‘I’ll do my best. If you say so, I will try and figure out that… erm… cactus.’

Novak smiled. ‘She speaks well of you, Yakov. All your partners did, but with Tatyana it means something more. You did for her something that no one else did. Well… maybe apart from her best friend. You’re one of two people who accept her just as she is. You’re not trying to change her into someone who’s not her. She can sense that, you know? And she respects you for that… even if she doesn’t show it all the time.

Hands that Yakov kept in his pockets shivered a little. Feltsman turned his face away, so that his coach wouldn’t have been able to see the weakness that appeared in his green eyes. The young man knew where it came from, but he would’ve never said it out loud.

Because, to be frank… it wasn’t only Tatyana who was given something exceptional. Thanks to Lubicheva and Baranovskaya, Feltsman discovered something new as well. It wasn’t friendship – he knew very well of that thing. Both as a little brat and as a young man who would soon become an adult, Yakov knew lots of people who he could’ve called friends. But only after he met these two women – the one he had an unrequited crush for and the one whom he started to treat like she’d have been his younger sister – he understood a new kind of feeling: a feeling of another person who could completely see right through him.

The feeling of another person looking at him and seeing not a temperamental man who could get furious very easily – as all the others did – but the _real him_.

The awareness that there were people who could see what was right there, under all the layers his personality was covered with, made Yakov feel both relieved and terrified. Because he had a reason for hiding in such a shell.

Figure skating taught him one thing – that all that guys dancing on the ice, jumping their triple sals, spinning with their legs raised over their heads and doing a bunch of other crazy stuff could play the big men, act like they were so self-confident, but under their masks of tough athletes they all hid the exact same thing. All of them – both ferns and cactuses. _All_ of them had the same problem.

They all had hearts as frail as ice.

‘Yakov!’

The young man moved his hand over the door handle. Feltsman turned his head to look at his coach. The old man sitting behind the desk looked to him more dignified than ever.

‘What do you think, what’s the thing that I like about you the most?’ Novak asked with a smile, but his eyes were earnest; deadly earnest.

Yakov tipped his head in a question.

‘Looking at other skater you always see a person first, and only then you see an athlete,’ Novak whispered. ‘That’s a gift of yours. The most precious gift that one could have. Whatever you decide to do, don’t reject what you’d been given. Do not reject that gift ever.’

 

**At present…**

‘I see.’

Tatyana was laying on her back and watching a fan spinning over her head. The woman’s eyes were filled with sadness and regret.

‘I see…’ she repeated with a short sigh. ‘So that’s what the ferns and cactuses mean? Oh, really… I’ve always thought Novak was a bit of a weirdo. But in reality, he was a great man. A damn _wise_ man.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ she heard Yakov’s gloomy voice on the phone.

‘But that was only the introduction, am I right, Jackie?’

Tatyana raised to her feet and reached for a cup of coffee standing on the bedside table. The latte smelled just amazing, as a one prepared by a beloved husband should. Not wanting to disturb, Steve moved to the living room with his favourite book.

‘Yes,’ Feltsman confirmed in a tired voice. ‘That wasn’t even the beginning. I wanted to explain the damn plants to you.’

Leaning against the wall, the former skater put her free hand in her dressing gown’s pocket and moved her eyes over the city behind the window’s glass. Even though there wasn’t any ambulance heard anymore, the billboard’s lights sparkling in the dark were strangely… depressing.

‘I don’t think I know when exactly all of that began.’ Tatyana took a sip from her mug. ‘That… erm... problem of yours. At least I’m not sure.’

‘I’m not sure either,’ Yakov muttered, ‘whether I can tell when it begun.’

‘Well, we have the whole night to specify that matter. Let’s start with the most important part. Tell me about the bet.’

‘Well, fine, I will tell you. But before I do, focus, okay? It’s a long and very messed up story. If you don’t pay enough attention, you may not get which bet am I talking about. You must know that even though there are loads of bets in this story, only one of them… _only one_ … was truly important to me.

 

**Dear Reader!**

If you liked the story -  **leave kudos!** **< 3**

If you want to give the Author (as well as the humble translator) some motivation -  **leave a comment!**   **:)**

xXx

 

*chav – the author uses the Polish term _dres_ (you can read about them on Wikipedia); stereotypically these are ‘young lower class men who’d beat you up for basically anything’. There's a similar group in Russia called _gopniki_ (thank you for letting me know, NB!) and Wikipedia suggested that a ‘chav’ would be a British equivalent. Actually, the group was separated and got its name in Poland almost thirty years after Yakov uses the term; I don’t know about Russia or Britain. In Polish it pretty much just sounds funny.

 

 xXx

 

 **Trivia:**  
* Leningrad is older name of Sankt Petersburg.

* Alexei Mishin (by whom, if we were to believe YOI creators, Yakov was inspired) was pair skating with Tamara Moskvina. It was probably the first skater to ever perform the Biellmann spin (doing a split while spinning). She did it... in 1965 ;) What's interesting, I found out about that AFTER I'd written Prologue (I'm talking about the date, I did my research before writing). [Here's a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-c0RmNtfR4) of Moskvina and Mishin's performance from 1968.

* Joseph Stalin really was born on Father Christmas Birthday (6th of December) (at least according to Julian Calendar).

* Alena Vrzanova was a Czechoslovak skater who was the first lady to jump a double Lutz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's Note]
> 
> So you got the opportunity to see the nineteen-year-old Yakov in action! How did you like him?  
> I hope you weren't scared by all the philosophical chit-chat. BUT 'The Gamble' is supposed to be a more serious story [TN: compared to Author's another fanfic which is not translated to English yet as far as I know], so from time to time there will be some... hmm... thoughts in it. But I promise you'll have plenty of moments to laugh at. Especially when Viktor appears and Yakov's live will start to resemble a constant Armaggedon ;)
> 
> If you want to ask me a question, find me on Tumblr or Facebook (my name's Jora Calltrise on both). 
> 
>  
> 
> Technical note:  
> Dear Readers! While writing the story, I did what I could to stic to historical realities. But please keep in mind that for the stories some facts (such as: venues where competition were held, World Champions' and record holders' names) could have been changed. I ask for your understanding!
> 
> For my fanfic reality, Viktor was born in 1988.
> 
> The wonderful anime 'Yuri on Ice' and its wonderful characters belong to 'Yuri on Ice' creators (Mitsurou Kubo and Sayo Yamamoto). The OCs belong to me (the Author, Jora Calltrise).
> 
>  
> 
> [Translator's Note]  
> If I start to write everything I want to write it could turn out to be longer than this chapter and I don't want it to be so, so I'll just say three things.  
> First - I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  
> Second - if you see any errors in spelling, grammar or whatever, please let me know!  
> Third - I have no idea when I will post the next chapter, but I hope it will be soon.
> 
> Kisses, Zashi


	2. Chapter 1: Va Banque!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 1997. Yakov, devastated after his divorce and aching over the loss of his favourite student, is preparing himself for a banquet. He started to think that his fate can’t possibly be any more cruel to him… Unfortunately – he was wrong. After being offered an ‘all or nothing’ deal, will Feltsman accept the challenge? Or will he choose the ‘safe path’ and decide to put an end to his coaching career?

**St. Petersburg, 1997**

‘It’s going to be one of the longest and the coldest winters in the whole Russian history! April slowly comes to an end, but nothing indicates that snow on Petersburg’s streets would melt any soon. According to meteorologists…’

A man standing in front of a mirror was half-listening to the announcer, paying most of his attention to a blade running across his square chin. The razor held with almost surgical care didn’t spare a last single hair. After all, it was the banquet night – it would be simply not appropriate to look even a bit away from the perfection! Even though Yakov shrugged in disgust at a single thought of leaving home…

Firstly – as the Important Person babbling on the TV pointed out – it was fucking cold outside. Secondly, the banquet would be attended by a horde of journalists and Yakov wasn’t exactly sure whether he could answer another question on his divorce without anyone getting punched in their face. And at last… this time the damned journalists would ask _not only about the divorce_. The majority of questions would concern…

Yakov mumbled a swear word.

 _No,_ he thought. _Stop. Don’t think about it. You’ve been thinking about it for far too long. It just happened. You’re not going to change it. And it’s not like you miss that boy that much. Or that little bastard, his brother._

Well, he could repeat all of these to himself, but the green eyes reflected in the mirror were telling him something else – being dark and depressed.

‘… a major weather change will come in the second week of May. And that’s when the people of western Russia can finally put the winter clothing back in their wardrobes. The latest fashion trends bring…’

Feltsman’s eyes wandered over the boxes stacked in the living room. They were everywhere – on the floor, on the sofa, on the table… Some of them were empty, some of them were just in the half, and some of them were still tightly taped. There were three pictures peeping out of one of them.

At the first one, two skaters were making threatening faces at the camera and showing their middle fingers while wearing medals. Yakov smiled at the reminder of that moment. The photo was taken in 1967. That was when Feltsman and Lubicheva won their first and only gold – but what kind of a gold! An Olympic one! Eh, what a marvellous day.

Another photo pictured Lilia and Tatyana on the beach in Los Angeles. The women wearing striped swimsuits were standing by a palm, both with a hand put on a hairy trunk of the plant and with a leg raised up in a full standing split. Baranovskaya-Feltsman’s sunglasses were heart-shaped, and the ones belonging to Lubicheva-McKenzie had eyelashes attached to them. The photo would be perfect if not for a finger put in the frame accidentally by Steve – American Olympic champion in speed skating, privately married to Tatyana.

For the third photo…

‘Newlyweds should think about spending their honeymoon in France!’ the announcer chirruped. ‘The weather at Cote d’Azure is going to be just perfect!’

For a second… literally just for a second Yakov considered throwing the TV out the window. For fuck’s sake, why were the smug fools always babble about honeymoons? Were they getting paid for it, or what?

With his mouth foaming, Yakov walked across the room, grabbed a remote controller angrily and turned the volume down. Before going back to the toilet, he glanced at the Photo Number Three. After a thought he took it out of the box and put it on the table, image facing the tabletop. He felt a little better. A little.

_Time will heal, they say…_

Fifteen minutes passed and Yakov finished shaving. A large hand wearing a gold signet ring ran over his cheeks.

 _All smooth like a baby’s arse,_ he mumbled in his thoughts. _Let’s hope it’s enough for the ladies to stop complaining I can’t get myself ready for a banquet._

The fifty-year-old gazed at his reflection for a while. He wasn’t one of these candyarse blokes who would spend hours in front of a mirror, but that day… that day he felt a weird need to look at himself more closely.

He didn’t know why he did. Maybe it was because he was about to attend a banquet finishing the World Championships in Figure Skating? Or rather because… he was about to attend an event like that _without his wife_ for the first time in twenty five years.

Feltsman shrugged. The man in the mirror looked strangely… foreign to him. Even though he didn’t see it at the first sight. His hair was the same fair-brown shade as always, his brows were furrowed in the same way, and his arms exposed by a white vest were just as muscular as in his youth (or even a bit more?). There were just some slightest differences – a few of grey hair strands by his ear, a bit of wrinkles around his eyes, the look being more tired and resigned compared to the predatory one… and the hair. Pulled back in a ponytail, reaching his shoulder blades hair begged him to see a hairdresser – it was a high time to get it trimmed! But Yakov couldn’t get up the courage to do it for one reason:

For the past twenty five years Lilia was the only person who ever trimmed his hair.

_All right, enough of this! I gave to get myself together at last. The last thing I need is prowling around the house like a lady with a period!_

Yakov marched into his living room angrily. He chose the perfect moment – the damned weather forecast had finished, finally.

‘And now,’ the man in the TV studio began, winking at the audience, ‘a special edition of the „Daily Sport News”! To celebrate the end of World Figure Skating Championships held in Petersburg we decided to focus today’s episode only on the news directly from the ice. For starters, straight from Rio de Janeiro, a highlight of Denise Biellmann’s performance! An exceptional skater known for an even more exceptional spin! The piece is entitled „Samba de Janeiro”!’

‘Oh boooy, yes!’ Yakov squealed, grabbing the remote control and nervously hitting the volume button. ‘Oh, God, yes… Denise, darling, you’re all I needed right now!’

The plasma display taking almost a half of a wall showed a silhouette of the woman, wearing a pink bikini with fringes. Ah, Denise wasn’t one of these thin as a rake skaters who looked like they’d spent their holiday in a Siberian labour camp! Decent-sized thighs and muscular arms made the ’81 World Champion easy to mistake for a man. Although Yakov doubted any man would be able to put such an amount of grace and sexiness in his programme!

‘Well, and that’s some serious skating!’ Feltsman clucked, shaking his butt in samba rhythms.

Ah, If only his ladies had got some of Biellmann’s advantages! If a Swiss woman in her thirties _who wasn’t even a competitive skater_ could pull out a performance that seemed to be more tiring than doing aerobics for three hours in a row, then why four Russian hussies couldn’t dedicate themselves to their practice a little bit more? It would be just enough if the’d once in a while listened to Yakov’s _polite suggestions_ (‘Don’t fuck around and start jogging!!! I know very well that you took a SHORTCUT!’), paid some attention to his _gentle, heartfelt guidance_ (‘Lutz?! Are you telling me that was a FUCKING Lutz?! It wasn’t even fucking related to Lutz!’) and stopped getting offended after he’d _softly motivated_ them to work harder (‘Your tits aren’t going to grow after you stare at them in a mirror for a long enough time, so stop dolling yourself up and go to the fucking gym!’). Ah, life could be so beautiful. If only someone bothered listening to Yakov…

Not stopping his energetic dance, Yakov grabbed an ironing board. A few moments later he was standing in the middle of the room wearing a white vest and grey shorts with red dots. Yakov’s bottom and the iron moved to the music and the wrinkles on his smart, black trousers were gradually straightening, making the fabric smooth and stiff. Maybe the day wasn’t going to be that awful?

Denise’s samba was kick-ass. Too bad it ended so quickly. And it was followed by something Yakov hadn’t foreshadowed even in his _nightmares_ to happen in his favourite programme. And definitely _not that day_!

‘Oh, what a woman!’ A man dressed in an elegant, black sweater used his hand as a fan. ‘It got a little hotter instantly. A hot routine from Rio is the perfect way to make the day better for all shivering Petersburgians! And now we have a little surprise. Our guest is very young indeed, but he’s already earned himself the title of one of the most popular athletes in the country! Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome this year’s World Junior Figure Skating Championships silver medalist, fourteen-years-old Maxim Levin!

_NO! For God’s love, please, no!_

Yakov abandoned his iron instantly and grabbed the remote control. To make matters worse, the damned thing slipped from his hands and rolled under the couch. Feltsman clenched his teeth. His last attempt at getting something out from under the piece of furniture ended in getting a pulled muscle. Moving the couch didn’t seem to be a good idea either. If only it was the old sofa that was here when he’d bought the flat… it could have been possible. But that _monster_? Yakov perfectly remembered the day he ordered it. _Five men_ had difficulties placing the said piece of furniture where it was supposed to be.

The man started to search his drawers with a sigh. He should’ve had another remote.

‘It’s your first medal in an event such big as the World Juniors,’ the host spoke to the young skater. ‘Are you proud?’

Yakov risked a quick glance at his ex-student. Max Levin was exactly the same as Feltsman remembered him – slim, but well-built, with short, slicked back blond hair and the calm expression never leaving his oval face. The blue, half-way closed eyes emanned with a polite interest.

‘I’m happy with my result, but I know I can do better,’ the boy stated with a smile. ‘I must admit I would prefer gold.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ The journalist blinked at him. ‘But it’s needless to say that silver is a great achievement as well. After all, you’ve never reached the podium before. The whole country is very proud of you. Everyone started to have some great expectations for you overnight. How do you feel, knowing that?’

A half of the drawer’s content was on the floor and there was no sign of the remote. The damned Murphy’s Law!

‘I’d like to point out that not only the country has high expectations, but in the first place _I have_ high expectations for myself,’ Yakov hears Max’s voice. ‘I have high demands on myself. No matter how important championships are, I always want to do my best. I’m glad people are cheering for me, but I don’t feel any pressure. Except for the one I am putting on myself personally.’

Feltsman smiled in sadness.

 _It’s so blatantly him,_ he thought, sighing deeply. _Like he’d been reciting ”The Good Athlete’s Handbook”.I’ve told him so many times that he should just keep being himself. People like confusing, but HONEST answers so much more than all the clichés learnt by heart. You should’ve realised it by now, Maxik. But, hold on a moment! Why do I even bother? Eh, where’s that bloody remote?_

‘A hard-working boy!’ the journalist chirruped. ‘You’re a tough guy, managing to get the silver even though you skipped the previous season. You had a year’s break, am I right?’

‘Indeed,’ the young man’s voice hinted dissatisfaction. ‘I hadn’t been competing for over a year. But that was not my decision to make. It was my ex-coach, Yakov Feltsman, who forbade me to start in competitions.’

The man’s hand frozen in the drawer a few inches over a pile of files.

‘I’m glad you’ve mentioned it as I’ve just wanted to talk about it! A few months ago you’ve shocked the entire skating world by leaving your coach, Yakov Feltsman, who you’ve been practising with since you’d been a child. Moreover… for your new coach you’ve picked Feltsman’s greatest rival, Alexei Vronkov. Could you tell us something more about that decision?’

 _Don’t listen,_ Yakov told himself, furiously moving away some paperclips laying over some papers. _You don’t have to listen! Just focus on finding the remote._

‘Coach Feltsman didn’t understand my needs,’ Max stated bitterly. ‘He wouldn’t allow me to spread my wings. The championships I’d practically had in my hands slipped out of them. I’m still angry because of that, I still don’t understand… why my coach hadn’t allowed me to compete when I was in my top shape.’

Yakov tightened his grasp on the drawer’s border.

 _In your top shape?_ Feltsman thought, clenching his teeth. _In top shape?! You had your knee fucked up! You NEEDED that bloody surgery! Maybe it’s true that you had that prize in your hands, that you’ve learned how to jump a fucking quad toe and all that stuff, but for heaven’s sake, it’s not all about winning! Don’t you understand what competing that one time could lead to?_

‘So you claim that Mr. Feltsman was overreacting when speaking about your injury?’ the journalist asked hesitantly. ‘It wasn’t that serious?’

‘Not serious enough to prevent me from competing,’ Max answered disrespectfully. ‘And even if it was, it wasn’t the _only_ reason me and Mr. Feltsman ended our partnership. I’ve made the final decision after what happened to my younger brother, Ivan. I was shocked mister Feltsman could be so _unfair_! Imagine that one of the club’s kids, Lyov Rykov, _attacked my brother_! Everyone expected the culprit to be punished. But he wasn’t. Coach Feltsman not only took Rykov’s side, but also _kicked_ MY BROTHER out of the club! For a provocation that _nobody… nobody_ had seen, that Lyov came out with to have an excuse for his horrible attack!’

 _Everything you say is so beautiful and pretty, Maxik,_ Yakov snapped in his mind, _but why won’t you tell the nice mister journalist what is said about that, how you call him, „innocent child”, your brother? Or what were the words he provoked Lyov with? You’re not being exactly objective here, you know?_

Maybe listening to that damned interview had some advantages? It was probably the first time since Levin has left him that Yakov felt relief his no longer the brat’s coach.

‘Only after speaking to my new coach I realised, why Mr. Feltsman has always favoured Rykov,’ Max continued. ‘Mr. Vronkov explained that Lyov, as a skater, is exactly the same as Mr. Feltsman used to be. It’s obvious that a coach would pay more attention to somebody in whom he can see his own traits resembled…’

 _If so, why did I pay so much attention to YOU?_ The fifty-year-old didn’t even notice despair that appeared in his thoughts. _You’re not even a bit how I used to be like!_

‘How old is your brother at the moment?’ the host asked.

‘He’s going to be ten in a month.’

‘He’s a great jumper, just like you are, am I right?’

Max smiled proudly. ‘That’s true. He’s just amazing with Lutz. And he’s jumping very high, even the toe loop. Me and my mother hope that thanks to Mr. Vronkov he’s going to develop even better! Changing the coach is already working out for him. Even though not much time has passed, I already see a great improvement in Ivanko’s technique.’

‘Speaking of which… could you say something more about Feltsman’s and Vronkov’s ways of coaching?’ the journalist asked excitedly. ‘You’re probably the only person able to compare methods of two greatest rivals in the world of figure skating.’

‘Both Vronkov and Feltsman have huge demands for their skaters,’ Levin said in a thoughtful voice. ‘But I think that it’s _Mr. Vronkov_ who is more professional. His club, _Spartan_ , is a perfect place for people who want to overcome their own weaknesses. Mr. Vronkov is focused on winning medals, so he doesn’t allow his students to feel sorry for themselves. He uses old, tested coaching methods… as opposed to Mr. Feltsman, he doesn’t do any wild experiments. And in particular, he doesn’t force his students to torture themselves with any useless supplementary exercises.

 _I wonder if Vronkov told him to say all these things?_ Yakov thought when opening another drawer. _It sounds like he had learnt it all by heart._

‘The _Champions’ Club_ was known for providing dance lessons for its members since the communist period,’ the guy in the studio pointed out politely. ‘Feltsman’s former students have commented on the matter rather positively. Many of them were fond of the opportunity to get to know the basics of the ballroom dancing, stage moves and ballet…’

‘Well of course, when somebody can’t jump properly, he’d clutch at anything,’ Max muttered. ‘But _I_ can jump. And I’m not saying that because I’m arrogant. I just know what I am capable of. I’m glad that someone has _finally_ let me focus on what I’m best in.’

 _And you’ve just said that_ Spartan _is a club for people who want to overcome their weaknesses,_ Yakov snorted in his mind. _You contradict yourself, Maxik. And, you know what… look up the definition of our sport discipline in an encyclopaedia one day. There are reasons why this sport is called figure skating, not ice jumping…_

‘The truth is, the _Champions’ Club_ is a bunch of amateurs and professionals,’ the young skater continued disrespectfully. ‘Dancing classes and other strange experiments were included in the schedule so that all the mediocres could think for a moment that they’re better than they are in reality. At _Spartan_ , it’s done differently. Here, it’s all clear: you either keep up or you don’t. If you want to be the club member, you have to _prove you’re worth it_.’

‘And you think that’s right?’ Yakov could’ve been wrong, but he felt like the journalist’s voice was a little cold.

‘Of course!’ Max said without hesitation. ‘Athlethes placing high in international rankings are the elite. And that’s how they should be treated: like the elite. Mr. Feltsman’s talking about how observation of skaters with other techniques helps you polish your own skills is just an archaic plug line that means next to nothing.’

That deprived Feltsman of any doubts. _He’s reciting,_ the man thought, shaking his head. _It’s impossible for a fourteen-year-old brat to use such words. Vronkov MUST’VE given him several lines to memorise._

‘Let’s take a look at my brother, for instance,’ the teenager started to speak more lively. ‘I’m sorry, but who was he supposed to learn from? From Rykov? Or maybe from Georgij Popovich… a kid who for some reason was practising in the same group as Ivanko, even though he has absolutely no talent and it’s clear he won’t achieve anything.’

‘With respect, but… you can’t know that,’ the journalist pointed out carefully.

‘Maybe I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’m not blind either. You don’t have to be a fortune-teller to foresee some things. Such as the fact that Georgij Popovich will never even smell the podium. Or that Mr. Feltsman will soon realise that his methods lead to nothing. I’m sorry to say that, but that’s the sad truth: Yakov Feltsman is _getting old_. For over five years not a single skater from the _Champions’ Club_ has won a medal. Except from me. I hope that the fact that I’ve left will help Mr. Feltsman to make a decision he must have been considering for a very long time. He’s my ex-coach and I wish him the best… and that’s why I believe he will understand what is the best for both him and the club and will retire as soon as this season ends, so that he has time for his well-earned rest and fixing his life after the divorce…’

Something was stinking badly. But what was it, in the devil’s name? Wait! It’s the…

‘FUCK!’

Yakov stormed towards the smoking iron. Shit! How could he forget about ironing?! He was running around the room like one of the characters in these dumb movies about losers.

‘What a jerk…’ he was mumbling to himself. ‘What a bloody, fucking jerk!’

Well, at the very least he didn’t have to deal with fire. But the trousers were a lost cause. So was the ironing board. Eh, and he’d managed to get it for such a good price at the flea market! He bought it from some Belarusian for half of its price. It lasted whole five days. Four days longer than the phone did.

RING! RING!

Speaking of the phone…

‘The perfect timing, my arse!’ Feltsman mumbled, throwing the iron into a steel bowl.

Damn, he didn’t really know what was he supposed to be doing! Keep looking for the remote so he could turn the fuching interview off, clean up the burnt board and the messed up trousers, or maybe pick up the phone chirruping in another part of the flat?! Fuck! The continued ringing wasn’t making the choice easier to make. Well, fuck it all!

Eventually Yakov ignored the board, threw the trousers into a sink, pulled the TV’s cord out of a socket, cutting the annoying appliance out of the electricity (and pulling the socket out of the wall), and then he marched into the hall furiously.

‘Yes?’ he spluttered, picking up the phone.

Nobody answered. And the ringing hadn’t stopped! What the hell was it supposed to mean?!

Only after a moment the fifty-year-old realised that the thing responsible for making the annoying noise was not the landline, but that new, strange invention called a ‘cellphone’. Around a week ago Yakov’s old flatmate, an ex-figure skater and not the manager of the _Champions’ Club_ , Igor Antonov brought a whole box of tiny devices and gave them to all skaters and coaches. Of course, he didn’t bother to say how the said ‘miracles’ were supposed to be operated.

Frankly speaking, Feltman couldn’t complain. He managed to figure out how to deal with the gizmo quite fast (much faster than all snot-nosed brats raised up together with new technologies) and the possibility of yelling at someone on the phone from any place in the Earth seemed to be very useful. Yes, that’s right, Yakov didn’t have any problems with the cell phone. But what a pity three landline phones had lost their lives because of the said cell phone.

WHAM!

Four landline phones.

Telling himself he would clear the remnants of the phone later, Yakov rushed to the living room. The ringing was coming from around the couch. Feltsman got the cell phone in his hands at the very last minute. Swiping sweat off his temple, he pressed the green button.

‘Yes?’

‘Yakov, are you sitting right now?’ he heard Igor’s worried voice.

The temperamental man raised his eyebrows. ‘No, I’m standing, for fuck’s sake,’ he mumbled annoyingly. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I think you’d better sit down.’ The manager swallowed a gulp.

Yakov’s eyes were fixed on the TV. Eh, Igor must’ve been watching the unfortunate interview with Max as well.

 _If you want to let me know that my former student publicly grinds me down i the mud, you’re a tiny bit late,_ Feltman muttered in his mind.

‘Whatever it is, I’m going to be fine.’ He closed his eyes and moved his hair from over his temple, leaning over the ironing board.

‘The ice rink has been sold.’

‘EXCUSE ME?! IS THAT A FUCKING JOKE?!!’

Yakov wasn’t feeling tired anymore. The furious fifty-year-old banged his fist against the board’s side. He had some bad luck, because the board struck back – her another end raised up, hitting Feltsman’s head pretty hard.

‘Yakov?’ he heard Igor’s worried voice on the phone. ‘Yakov, are you alright? Are you alive?’

‘Yes, somehow I am…’

With his hand over his temple, the mauled man went back to the couch.

‘You’ve broken something again, haven’t you?’ The manager was most likely shaking his head. ‘ _I told you_ to sit down.’

‘It wouldn’t have changed anything,’ Yakov sighed. ‘Hearing something like that I would break something _anyway_. And now, explain: what the _fuck_ is going on here?’

‘Erm… I’ve already told you? The ice rink has been sold.’

‘Yes, I heard you the first time, for fuck’s sake. I know that it’s been sold. I’m asking you how in Earth has it happened, if it _hadn’t been put up for sale_?!’

Igor stayed silent for a while.

‘As far as I know, the whole transaction was conducted on the side,’ he finally spoke up in a gloomy voice. ‘Somebody must’ve had some kind of an agreement with the authorities. They were probably bribed.’

‘But, how?’ Feltsman’s hand tightened around the cellphone. ‘ _How_ could it happen? We’re too clever for that shit. _I am too clever for that shit_! If there was any opportunity to work things out on the side, I would myself negotiate with the authorities and bribe them! I was preparing to do so ever since I’ve gathered the sum large enough to buy that damned rink. _Our_ rink! Fuck, since they came out with the bloody _perestroika_ and started to privatise everything I’ve been on my guard like fucking Vader around his Death Star! So please, be so kind to me and explain, what the holy FUCK happened around here?!’

Just as he asked that question he knew the answer deep inside. Or rather – the rough sketch of the answer. Because the solution of the mystery was rather simple… the whole world was ruler with this principle.

And the principle was, even though something might look like impracticable, abstract and totally beyond the capability of plain mortals, there was always some dick with enough money and connections who could find a gap in the system and fuck everything. Just as Han Solo and his comrades found a gap in the Emperor’s indestructible destruction machine and fucked the entire mechanism up (Yakov was probably the only person in the cinema who cried after Vader’s defeat).

The question was – _which of the dicks_? And how many connections did they have that they had managed to surpass _even Yakov_ in that race?! Moreover – for _what damn reason_ did they buy a facility in a desperate demand for renovation, housing an ice rink that was older than Feltsman himself?

The fifty-year-old coach took a moment to steady his breathing. After around ten seconds he decided he had no interest of the mysterious buyer’s identity. Exactly – he didn’t care about it at all! He didn’t give a shit about who the guy was and what were his motifs. Frankly, Feltsman’s only interest was the price. He wanted to know how many billions of rubles was the new owner hoping for and how fast was it possible to negotiate a deal with him.

For Yakov Feltsman the _Champions’ Club_ , called also the _Champion_ , was of utmost importance. It was absolutely _invaluable_. If the wealthy, used to living in luxury fifty-year-old was told to get rid of all of his fortune and come back to the simple life he laid back in his youth, Yakov would go for it. He would do anything for the beloved Club.

Igor Antonov was perfectly aware of that matter.

‘I’ll do my best to find out something more,’ he informed Yakov in a gentle voice. ‘As soon as I know who the new owner is, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks,’ Feltsman grunted. ‘Does Pavlo know? Have you called him?’

‘Not yet. He’s at his daughter’s in Switzerland. I don’t want to interrupt his holiday. He’ll be back in Petersburg in a few days. I’ll tell him everything when he’s back.’

‘But don’t put it off too much! You don’t want him to come to work one day and find out he won’t be let into his office, do you?’

 _Who knows when our mysterious buyer gets access to the building?_ Yakov thought with unease. _We have to find that bloke and work things out as soon as possible…_

‘Actually…’ Igor swallowed a gulp nervously. ‘The physical therapy office wouldn’t be our only problem. I went to the rink in the morning. The entrance was roped off with red tape.’

‘WHAT?! YOU’RE MESSING WITH ME, AREN’T YOU?!’

Yakov stood up, hitting his knee on a coffee table. Squealing in pain, he sat down once again.

‘Don’t hurt yourself, Yakov,’ the manager spoke up, worried. ‘Try to calm yourself down a little…’

‘How am I supposed to calm down when something like THAT is happening?!’ Yakov roared, rubbing the bruise on his knee. ‘For heaven’s sake, we’re basically _residents_ in that building! There shouldn’t have been any tapes for a month at least, or even longer than a month! What’s an illegal sale is an illegal sale, but, damn it, there still are some rules of law! Even the communists weren’t that much full of shit!’

‘Well, you know… heheh… I would’ve argued whether they weren’t, but…’

‘THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! What am I supposed to tell the singles? What am I supposed to tell the novices? What am I supposed to tell EVERYONE?! Why all that hell must’ve happened right…’

Yakov kept yelling and yelling… he’d been yelling for some fifteen minutes at least! But his caller wasn’t that much impressed by it. The manager said nothing, waiting patiently until the level of Feltsman’s fury would move from ‘dramatic’ to ‘normal’. At some point, the bad-tempered man needed to take a breath.

‘Don’t tell anybody for now,’ Igor suggested in a calm voice. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to just figure it out quickly and there won’t be a need for any more fuss? You’ll see, we can do this! After all, you may lack some things, but money isn’t one of them. Think positive, Yakov! Unless that guy is a special ops commander, a brother of the President, or… I don’t know… the mother of some Mafia boss, everything will end up well.’

Feltsman snorted softly. The mother of the Mafia boss wouldn’t be any problem. The said lady treated Yakov to her strogonov on a daily basis.

‘All right,’ the bad-tempered man mumbled at his phone. ‘Okay, fine. I’ll do my best to withstand it all. I’ll tell the girls a few days after the banquet. I hope the press doesn’t know about anything yet. Their questions about my divorce are going to be more than enough…’

The other end of the call fell silent.

‘Hey, Igor, are you there?’

‘Yakov, so you’re… you’re going to the banquet tonight?’ the manager asked hesitantly.

Feltsman rolled his eyes. _That’s just shitty perfect,_ he thought in anger. _Another dumbass with an overprotectiveness syndrome!_

‘Yeah, I am. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, I don’t know…’ Igor sighed deeply. ‘But you understand that you don’t have to do it? The ladies are grown-up. You don’t have to keep holding their hands. They would be all right even without you. Nothing would happen if you skipped one banquet. You could tell that you’re ill or something…’

‘ _I am not_ ill and I won’t pretend to be ill,’ Yakov declared in an ice-cold voice. ‘The tradition and good manners demand the coach to accompany a competitor to a banquet and that’s all I’ve got to say on that matter.’

‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’ His friend sighed once again. ‘After all, Vronkov is going to be there, and…’ another sigh, ‘and Max.’

He could use a lollipop – Feltsman felt like smashing something with his teeth (preferably Vronkov’s finger).

‘That two are going to be at the banquets this year, the next year, and the year after that,’ he said in a cold, confident voice. ‘If I still want to be a part of the figure skating world, I have to get used to the fact that I’m going to run into them all the time. I’ve got four talented girls under my wings, and one of them is the Vice World Champion now. They may be a bunch of mad lunatics and damn witches with painted faces, but; holy hell, they have been working hard! They deserve their coach showing that he’s proud of them, not to pretend he has a flu and cry hidden in a corner. I’m not going to hide in my house like a fucking coward only because the boy I’ve raised up sice he’d been wearing nappies is now coached by my greatest rival. Getting divorced doesn’t make a man lose his nuts. And that’s why I will go to the banquet and bite all the displeasure like a decent man would do. Got it?’

Igor sighed for the fourth time. ‘As speaking of the divorce…’ he started talking after a moment of silence. ‘Have you unpacked all the boxes?’

Yakov huffed half-angrily, half-wearily.

‘Yakov…’ The manager’s voice hinted a bit of resignation. ‘ _Half a year_ has already passed.’

‘I’ll do everything in my own time,’ Yakov mumbled, raising up from the couch.

He approached the photo he had taken out of the box earlier. His finger tips moved over its wooden surface as if they were moving on their own. With the image facing the tabletop, it resembled a defeated warrior. The divorcee’s hand touched the turned up cardboard stand and pressed it down.

‘You’ve sold your flat,’ Igor pointed out in a sad voice. ‘Both of you now have their own one. You’ve signed the papers. It’s over. You _have to_ get your things unpacked.’

The last sentence was about unpacking, but Yakov’s mind heard something different. Something like:

‘You _have to_ accept the way things are.’

‘You _have to_ heal yourself of the feelings for your ex-wife.’

‘You _have to_ get yourself together.’

‘And I will,’ Feltsman stated, trying to sound like he wanted to feel like – that was optimistic and confident, not as in the reality: pessimistic and shitty.

He touched the edge of the frame hesitantly. How was it possible for a man who for a half of his life had been lifting women weighing over a hundred pounds couldn’t find the strength to lift a tiny photo?

‘I’m going to be all right.’ He didn’t know who was he trying to convince more” Igor or himself. ‘You don’t have to be bothered with me. I’ll be fine. I’ll get over with it, sooner or later.’

His fingers finally managed to grab the piece of wood. His big hand raised the photo to eye-level with difficulty. Even though the photo was black and white, Lilia’s dress was stunning. Many days have passed since that day, but Yakov still remembered well the flowers being red. They perfectly complimented the bride’s dark hair. Yakov imagined brushing Lilia’s hair with his fingers. He remembered it was silk-soft and it smelled amazing.

‘Have you taken off your wedding ring?’

‘Yeah, I have.’

Yakov put the wedding photo in the drawer.

‘And the signet ring?’

‘I’m not taking it off,’ a hint of fierceness appeared in Yakov’s voice, ‘it was a gift from my father-in-law. It would’ve been a dishonour of his memory.’

‘You’ve divorced his daughter,’ his colleague pointed out. ‘What if Lilka sees you wearing this ring? What if she doesn’t like it and she’ll punch you in the face?’

‘She’ll punch me in the face, then.’ Yakov shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not taking the signet off. If you want to force me to do it, you will have to bite my finger off.’

‘Stop reading Tolkien,’ Igor chuckled.

‘Fuck off. I’m reading what I want to read.’

‘That’s your right… Well, anyway, take care of yourself, will you? Try not to mess things up at the banquet. Best if you wouldn’t talk to Max and Vronkov at all.’

‘Yeah, ‘f course,’ Feltsman snorted, scouring the wardrobe in search for a pair of decent trousers. ‘The problem is that if it was to be possible, they couldn’t speak to me either. And I will bet all my money that at least one of them wouldn’t miss an opportunity of fucking around with me tonight.’

‘Erm… I don’t want to go bankrupt, so I’m not taking the bet!’ As an experienced gambler should, Antonov was rational on the matter.’

‘So let’s bet on what Vronkov’s going to be scolded for by his wife tonight. The loser buys a bottle of vodka.’

‘Oooh, and that’s more like it!’ Igor got more lively at an instant. ‘Hum hum hum… is it just me or do you have your good mood back?’

‘I have to boost it somehow,’ Yakov sighed after getting the tenth piece of the wardrobe out on the floor. ‘So what are you betting on? Clothes or manners?’

‘Hmm… if he’s got so many reasons to fuck around with you, then it should be about his manners?’

‘I think she’ll tell him off for dressing up badly. He’ll probably wear that ridiculous tie with green stripes again…’

‘And who’s talking! It’s not like you’re an expert in fashion either.’

He got his point. After emptying a half of his wardrobe, Yakov decided he was done. He grabbed some random suit trousers and put it on his butt. He did that being perfectly aware that his girls would bully him for not matching the colours.

‘I’m not going there to pose on the red carpet,’ he mumbled at the phone. ‘Banquet means war! The soldier doesn’t have to be dressed well.’

‘If you say so… Anyway, we’ll see each other in a couple of days. When Pavlo comes back from Switzerland we’ll go to our pub and play cards. And don’t even think you’re going to get out of it! Sitting at home is not serving you well. Don’t let Vronkov get you and remember that we’re on. See you, then!’

When Igor hanged up, Yakov glanced at the said ‘home’. It would be more suitable to call it ‘the place he existed in’. Boxes that were only half-emptied, burnt trousers, the pulled-out socket… the wedding photograph padlocked in a drawer together with the wedding ring hidden in a small, wooden box.

Okay – that was only the temporary state. The boxes were going to be unpacked, new trousers would replace the old ones, a lad from the neighbourhood would repair the socket… and maybe the photo and the ring would move out from the drawer and make themselves comfortable at a shelf. Yakov wasn’t born yesterday and it wasn’t the first time Yakov was having a crisis. He knew that sooner or later it _had to be better_.

The question was – what to do after that?

He would settle in the new flat and _what next_? He would but the rink and _what next_? There was only one thing he could do – teach other people. He’d been managing the _Champions’ Club_ for over ten years and as the main coach, he followed the rules that were left by Misha Novak. But what was he supposed to do when just several minutes earlier Max Levin, _his own pupil,_ a boy he’d been coaching since he’d been little, publicly and in totally uninhibited fashion _rubbed these rules in his arse?!_

Eh, if only Yakov was still married… maybe he could give up being a coach? Maybe he could let himself and the woman he loved making all their dreams come true, for which they never had enough time? Maybe he would be able to do that? Admittedly, both him and Lilia were workaholics, but…

Feltsman shook his head. All the ‘ifs’ and ‘whens’ would never lead to anything. Instead of grieving over his divorce, he should’ve been planning on how to survive the banquet. Or rather, how not to end up in an asylum thanks to the four annoying wenches…

 

xXx 

 

‘Just one little kiss. Why do you care so much, honey?’

‘I don’t want to get my makeup damaged.’

‘But what’s the problem, baby? You’re so pretty… I’m sure you’d look just as stunning without the lipstick. And besides, I’m sure your friend will help you get yourself cleaned up. Come on, don’t be like that. If you spare some time for me, my friend and I will give you a lift for that very important party of yours. We have a beautiful, silver Merc…’

‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but the part of our chauffeur is already taken.’

‘Oh, really? And who is it taken by? Your overprotective daddy?’

The student’s comment resulted in a burst of laughter amongst the dolled up young ladies. The young man didn’t understand where their amuse came from… but at the same time he was happy that he managed to make his new crush laugh. After all – as his more experienced colleagues repeated wisely – once you get a smile from your chosen one, the way to her heart was child’s play!

Encouraged by his mini-success, Fyodor exchanged a knowing look with his mate and asked with an flirtatious smile, ‘I see… are you a daughter of some mafioso?’

‘More or less.’ The blonde with a fancy bun wiped off a tear from a corner of her eye and sent a sugary smile toward the bloke.

Seeing a row of perfectly white teeth Fyodor’s heart speeded up its beat excitedly. Ah, he loved mafia films! Just as much as he loved ladies with sense of humour. Damn, maybe he had a chance? Once he and Rudolph saw a flock of long-legged beauties, they tried not to get their hopes up. They started hitting on them full spontaneously, wearing ripped sandshoes and worn-off T-shirts while coming back to the dorm with bags full of beer cans. What chances did they have with ladies who looked like they’d been taken out of Vogue cover?

Well, apparently they had some…

‘I thought that at some age, you get to old to be controlled by your parents?’ Fyodor chatted up, winking at the chick.

‘You’d be surprised.’ The owner of the strange hairdo batted her eyes, smiling gently.

‘Stop provoking him, Masha,’ a dark-haired girl with red highlights said in a bored voice, keeping her eyes fixed at her fingernails. ‘Do you want him to lose his life after flirting with you?’

‘You’re exaggerating, Sonechka,’ a small blonde with a pony tail giggled. ‘Papa isn’t that much aggressive.’

‘Of course he’s not,’ Sonya snorted with a mean grin. ‘He’s not aggressive at all. He’s only… hmm… polite in a different way?’

‘By the way, where  is he?’ the fourth girl, a brunette beauty with friendly, brown eyes was looking around their surroundings. ‘He’s late. He _is never_ late.’

‘Maybe he had a stroke?’ Masha wondered worriedly.

‘A stroke?’ The girl with the ponytail shook her head. ‘He? Oh, please… he’s _indestructible_. He won’t kick the bucket before he turns hundred!’

Rudolph took the opportunity instantly. ‘Why trouble your father? _We_ can give you a lift!’

‘Exactly!’ Fiodor nodded enthusiastically. ‘Your tired and sick father definitely would rather lay down on a couch and…’

At the moment, they heard tires screeching. A white Honda appeared from behind a corner – and what a Honda was that! Only big shots drove cars like that…

The car stopped in front of the students. A window went down with a silent hum, showing a long-haired man in his fifties, wearing ‘The Godfather’ styled hat, dark glasses and a gold signet ring shimmering sinisterly, leaning his muscular forearm against the steering wheel and with his teeth looking like they’d been made to bite people’s arteries.

Fyodor and Rudolf almost pissed themselves. Fuck, so the said daddy was _a mafioso indeed_?! Oh, holy God… oh, holy fuck!

The man took his glasses off, treating the young men to his ice cold, disdaining look.

‘ _Go fuck yourselves_ , you little shits.’

Running away, the young men didn’t feel any fear. They felt _gratitude_. Because the threatening boss let them go and fuck themselves in his generosity (instead of, for example, shooting them or having them castrated or doing something even worse).

Maria ‘Masha’ Berezina watched the escaping students sadly. ‘You know what, coach?’ she moaned, stomping her heel on the pavement, ‘the one with a moustache was quite pretty!’

‘And how are we supposed to find someone when the coach is following us like a furious Doberman?’ sighing theatrically, Elena ‘Lenka’ Limonova slipped her long, blond ponytail back.

‘We’ll die as old maids,’ Sonya Grankina mumbled, winding one of her red strands of hair around her finger.

‘Why are you late, coach?’ the only (according to Yakov) normal girl, Veronika Sokolova, asked. ‘We were starting to get worried.’

‘I was two fucking minutes late,’ Feltsman mumbled, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘It’s not a reason for arranging my funeral, Verechka.’

‘Oh, so we’re not buying that shiny Father Christmas shaped tombstone?’ Elena asked, whispering.

Yakov furrowed at her. ‘ _Bloody_ amusing, Lenka, perfectly hilarious!’ he snapped. ‘And now put your skinny arses in the car or I’m going to leave without you!’

The last bark was a little half-hearted. Some part of him didn’t want to let these dolled up witches in his car. The purses filled with cosmetics didn’t bode well for the freshly vacuumed upholstery and polished surfaces. As someone who had spent the majority of his life dealing with women, Yakov knew that opposing nail polish barely anything could make it through – and the damn women wouldn’t go anywhere without garbage like that! Or at least the ones right there.

Feltsman had a great shot. He’d barely started the engine when the car turned into a miniature beauty salon:

Masha, who loved strange hairdos since she’d been little, detangled her sophisticated bun and started to do it up again (the sight of blond hair falling down on the seat almost gave Yakov rabies).

Lenka – a champion of jumping on the ice, a compulsive gossip girl off ice – started chatting about her neighbour’s latest romance, simultaneously applying lip gloss, waving her blonde hair and putting her leg on the driver’s shoulder to buckle up her shoe better (the fucking heel hit Yakov’s ear three times – after the fourth hit Feltsman threatened the girl he’d bite her leg off).

The humble, calm brunette, Verechka, decided that was the perfect time for brushing her teeth (if she wasn’t the new Vice World Champion, Yakov would tell her to polish the whole car with a brush and paste – and only the brush would be for teeth).

While Sonya… aaah, Sonechka, that damn devil wearing skirt, that twenty-one-year-old evil incarnate with red highlights… that doll who only two days ago charmed the spectators with that filled with sex appeal free skating programme, now, at the very moment of sitting on the front seat, decided that it was a perfect moment for taking her dress off.

‘Don’t you think you should be a little _fucking_ embarrassed?!’ Yakov barked when he saw a pink bra in the corner of his eye. ‘I’m still here, for _fuck’s sake_!’

‘A bloke who have been lacing up my skates when I was five years old is not in the „men” category,’ she spurted out, continuing her fight with the nasty bra strap.

‘Excuse me, but who am I supposed to be then?! _A hermaphrodite_?!’

 _And what do you mean saying ‘when I was five years old’?_ he wanted to add. _I still lace your skates up from time to time!_

‘Of course not, the coach is a real man.’ Sonya treated him with a sweet smile. ‘But not _a man_. I mean… well… you understand, coach? In front of my father, I walk around in my underwear as well.’

‘Yeah, your daddy told me once how he took a spill down the stairs and ended up in a hospital after you’d come out of the bathroom half naked,’ Yakov mumbled mockingly.

‘Sonechka’s dad isn’t quite tough.’ Grinning, Lenka lay in between the front seats and started applying eyeshadow. ‘Unlike the coach… by the way, could you move the mirror a bit?’

‘And what, slow down so that you could paint your face?!’

‘That would be very nice…’

‘No FUCKING way! And get your tits off the gear stick!’

When they stopped at traffic lights, a cyclist was crossing the street. Sadly for him, he glanced at the beautiful, white Honda. Seeing Sonya half naked and Lanka’s generous neck cut, he got a bit too distracted and bumped into a somewhat around ninety-year-old lady. Yakov didn’t know who should he sympathise with. At first he sympathised with the old lady… but when the old lady dusted herself off, got up on her feet, grabbed her cane and started to beat the young man and his bike, Feltsman started to sympathise with the monocycle’s owner.

‘See what you did?’ he mumbled at Sonya. ‘You caused an accident!’

Still being concerned about the bloody bra strip she didn’t even notice him saying something.

The light changed from red to green, but the fight at the crossing was at its best. Drivers behind Yakov started honking, but Yakov ignored them, feeling that the old lady’s vengeance was more important than the risk of getting one of Sankt Petersburg’s largest streets jammed. In this way, he got stuck in the city centre, in one car with a bunch of ladies who didn’t even notice what happened outside and kept babbling about some bullshit, leaving their hair on the seats and splashing the upholstery with nail polish.

Yakov’s forehead and forearms slapped the steering wheel as he leaned against it. _Women…_ he thought desperately. _Why do they always have to be BLOODY women?! Why do I have to deal with women all my life? First my sisters, then Tatyana, and now these four monsters! I don’t count Lilechka, her soul is a man and he has even more guts than I do… But, for fuck’s sake, I’m done! I don’t want to deal with wenches anymore! God, if you even exist, let me coach some MALE skater! Fuck, he can even be a poof and a crybaby and the most annoying person in the world, but, goddamn it, a guy! I’m not picky, I’m really not. My desperate ‘me’ will accept anyone without boobs._

Oh, if only he could gag these all made-up witches! If only there was some kind of a machine that would stop all the babbling! Yakov would buy it in bulk…

‘Waaah, my makeup has smeared. Masha, help!’

‘There, darling, show me how it looks like…’

‘Oh no, I’ve torn my tights!’

‘Coach, stop the car. We have to go to a kiosk.’

‘How am I supposed to stop if we’re NOT EVEN FUCKING MOVING!’ Yakov yelled so loud that all the drivers behind them heard him. The honking stopped as if by magic.

But of coarse the granny’s revenge couldn’t last forever. The white Honda finally moved… but of course not to go straight to the banquet, but the _damn kiosk_ , because the four moaners wouldn’t leave their coach at peace and would bring his brain to explosion of listening to their constant whining about tights, straps and other bollocks! And apparently the _Champions’ Club_ was ruled by penguins, because just as in the world of the black and white flightless birds it was the male doing the dirty work and laying eggs, it was _Yakov_ who marched towards the booth so that his vain students could peacefully finish ‘doing themselves up’.

‘But don’t pick the first thing that comes to your hands, coach!’ Masha leaned her head out through the car’s window. ‘I want some decent tights.’

‘And don’t forget about a bra, coach!’ he heard Sonya’s yell.

‘We have to sew on Verechka’s lace. Buy some thread as well, coach.’

‘Oh! And as you’re going there, buy _Woman’s Weekly*_ , coach.’

Feltsman hadn’t managed to take two steps before Lenka squeezed next to Masha.

‘AND PERIOD PADS!’ she yelled, almost falling out of the car.

With his hands in his pockets, Yakov marched towards the kiosk. He didn’t even feel like making comments on that complete lack of discretion… he had not a bit of strength to call these spoilt ladies to order! Eh, he would better take care of that issue and head straight to the banquet…

There were two men standing by the booth. They didn’t look like they intended to line up, so Feltsman shrugged his shoulders and approached the box. Throwing money onto the counter, he barked in a voice filled with fury:

‘I’d like some tights, size M, ashy, the ones with the cat head logo, a bra, size thirty four C, white with wired cups, a navy thread, April’s issue of _Woman’s Weekly_ and pads with wings, in that blue package, the one with a fucking bright pink sign. Oh, and a heart-shaped lollipop. You can keep the change!’

The shocked seller didn’t move for a while, standing with his eyes large as bottle caps. Only when Yakov glared at him angrily, he hopped and rushed to pick the supplies. Praying for a soon return from the banquet, Feltsman rubbed his forehead. Someone started to pull his suit gently.

‘Erm… excuse me, mister? I’d… like to… urm…’

The experienced coach fixed his eyes on the stranger. The youngster was probably a similar age as the snots who were trying to hit at the ladies – a skinny redhead with dark circles under his eyes, so characteristic of a student after an important exam.

‘I’m sorry for interrupting you, mister…’ the bloke started, ‘but I was wondering… could you give me a hint on how to buy these… you know…’

‘What?’ Yakov raised his eyebrow. ‘Period pads?’

The boy nodded energetically.

‘It’s hard to say it for you, right, mate?’ Feltsman asked with understanding.

He got answered with even more energetic nodding. The bunch of skaters’ caretaker sighed deeply.

‘It’s important they cost not less than twenty rubles and that they have wings. But when a woman tells you to buy a certain brand, you have to find it even if it means sweeping through a half of the city. If you fail to buy the right ones, at the very worst you can get beaten, and at the very best you have to listen to her moping for three hours. Oh, and one more thing: dark blue and bright blue are _not the same_. Got it?’

‘And these…’ the youngster hesitated, ‘ _wings_? What are they for?’

‘You don’t need to know that. The only thing you need to know is that a pad without wings is like a belt without a buckle.’

‘Oh, God…’

The student’s hands started squeezing his shirt’s rim. The poor guy must’ve imagined a little too much and started to feel overwhelmed. Eh… information like these should be included in secondary school’s programmes! It would’ve spared several blokes from embarrassing kiosk expeditions (and Yakov from giving them advice).

‘Erm… excuse me…’ another man spoke up unexpectedly, a tall, dark-haired one. ‘I have to buy a bra for my sister and I was wondering if…’

‘Do you have a photo of her?’ Feltsman mumbled impatiently. ‘How old is she?’

‘Thirteen.’ The man fished out an old photo out of his wallet. ‘Our mother usually buys it, so I don’t know what size she wears and…’

‘Thirty two B.’

‘Oh shit! Eee… really?’

‘As for me, she must wear C at least,’ the redhead commented humbly.

‘Or even D!’ The seller leaned out of the booth’s window.

Yakov rolled his eyes. Pff, such naïve fools! ‘She stuffs her bra,’ he mumbled. ‘Thirteen-year-old snotty girls hardly ever have tits larger than C. All you have to do is look at her waist. It’s completely disproportionate to her chest. It must be tissues or a padded bra.’

‘Oh, dear…’

All three: the redhead, the giant and the vendor were looking at Feltsman like the Jews were looking at Moses when he parted the sea.

Yakov didn’t have time to continue educating some strangers in womanology, so he simply grabbed his stuff and walked towards the car.

‘Is he some kind of a _guru_ or what?’ he heard behind him.

‘A fucking specialist!’

At that same moment (still half-naked) Sonya leaned out of the car’s window. ‘Hey, what takes you so long? We’re waiting!’

Other skaters started to rush their coach as well, moaning and pushing their cheeks against the glass. Feltsman’s hand slapped his forehead, making a loud noise. Fucking _perfect_. He wondered what those three fools would think?

‘Look who’s waiting for him in the car!’ the redhead student shrieked.

‘Holy shit… he’s managed to hook _that many babes_ at his age?’ the seller moaned, failing to hide his jealousy.

‘Shit,’ the giant’s voice was a mix of disbelief and respect, ‘and I didn’t believe my mom when she told me that charm is something more than just the looks.’

Feltsman’s fingers tore the lollipop wrapper in fury. The sticky heart disappeared in the mouth crooked from irritation. As it turned out – that wasn’t the end of the show yet!

The white Honda hadn’t managed to move more than a hundred yards when two of the four girls grabbed their heads.

‘Oh, shit!’ Sonya moaned.

‘Heck, did you forget about the same thing I did?’ Lenka gave her a knowing look.

‘For sure. God damn it, how could we forget!’

‘Coach, turn back, we forgot about the _condoms_.’

Yakov’s feet pressed the brake pedal so hard that if it was not for the belt it must’ve ended with an accident. The surprised ladies squealed.

‘ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!’ The yell was so load that even Feltsman got pain in his ears. ‘You’re not going to that banquet to sleep around!’

‘Who talks about sleeping around!’ Lenka rolled her eyes.

‘Are we supposed to be nuns?’ Sonya grunted softly.

‘You have to be mental if you think I will come back for bloody condoms!’ Yakov hit the horn several times, almost giving the driver in front of them a heart attack (the black golf’s owner even pulled over to let the furious fifty-year-old through).

Pfff! Bloody snorties… Want to have sex? Where such a number of hormones come from? Maybe their practice sessions were not harsh enough? Ooh, then Feltsman would ensure to change things! Just wait till the end of the banquet!

 _I’ll make them do intervals after which they will instantly forget about one-night stands!_ Yakov promised himself, biting the lollipop vengefully. _One thing is for sure… I’m not coming back for bloody condoms! There’s no way I’m appearing anywhere near that kiosk again!_

‘Whatever!’ Sonya folded her arms, being offended. ‘If I get pregnant, then it’s the coach’s fault!’

_Fuck!_

With a professional drifter’s efficiency the man turned the car around. There was just one thing worse than skaters sleeping with whoever was near them: skaters bringing drooling babies to the ice rink (guess who changed their nappies when mummies were busy).

Therefore the trip to the booth repeated, Yakov bought the goddamn condoms (the students’ and the seller’s faces were _priceless_ ) and got back to the car. Listening to Joan Jett’s song ‘I love rock and roll’ the team (fucking finally!) headed to the banquet.

‘Do you want some, Verechka?’ Masha asked when they opened the box together with Lenka and started to give out tiny wrappings to whomever was willing to get them.

The Vice World Champion stiffened. ‘Erm… no… you know… no, thanks,’ she spluttered, turning her blushed face to the window.

For Yakov, who was watching the scene in a rear-view mirror, it was quite a surprise. Well… sure, the youngest (only nineteen years old) sheep in his flock, Verechka, was a model of pure virtues and she was always very polite… but she never before refused to take . Not even because she actually wanted to use it. It was rather because of the fact she didn’t want to listen to her colleagues’ whining. And as it could’ve been foretold, they started bothering the poor girl again.

‘Oh, come ooon, Verechka!’

‘Take it with you, just in case!’

‘Who knows who are you going to meet at the banquet?’

They kept talking and talking, but the young Vice World Champion stayed silent, keeping her hands folded on her knees.

 _Is she still grieving she hasn’t won the gold?_ Yakov wondered. _Or maybe she’s just having a bad day? I’ll have to ask her about it…_

‘In my day, women had respect for themselves and didn’t sleep with whoever came round,’ he mumbled to distract other skaters and give Verechka some space.

‘And that one again.’ Sonya rolled her eyes. ‘You’re always talking how it was „in your day” „in your times”, coach!’

‘It’s not my fault you’re easy. I’m just telling you that when I was young a statistic lady wouldn’t be pleased with any guy she’d met. These days, you had to woo the girl. And now you don’t even need to buy flowers.’

At the instant, Feltsman was surrounded with arms. Before the confused fifty-year-old had a chance to ask what the fuck was happening, the girls managed to squeeze all the condoms in his jacket pocket.

‘HOLY FUCK!’ he yelled, waving his hands around angrily (thankfully they’d stopped at a crossroad, so he could let go of the steering wheel). ‘What the hell are you doing?!’

‘We’re giving it to you for safekeeping.’ Masha winked at her coach. ‘Nobody will say that we were _easy_.’

‘If I find a man who really _deserves_ to have me, I’ll let you know, coach,’ Lenka declared splendidly.

‘ARE YOU MAD?!’ Yakov was at the end of his tether. ‘Excuse me, but who am I supposed to stand for at this banquet? A fucking CONDOM DISPATCH?! Maybe you’ll give me a label signed „than guy has condoms, let him know if you need some”?’

‘It wouldn’t be that stupid,’ Sonya stated, putting her thumb against her lower lip. ‘You could registrate everyone and check if they’re over eighteen.’

‘YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING…’

The condom quarrel lasted throughout the whole drive. When they’ve arrived at the right place, Feltsman got out (or rather: rolled out) of his car having his forehead sweated and his throat dry from constant yelling. It wasn’t strange of him that the first thing he did after passing the threshold of the generously decorated room was seeking a table with soft drinks and pouring a glass of whatever he got in his hands.

 _Oh, God, that’s amazing,_ he thought, tasting the chilled orange juice. _Finally, some peace!_

He looked around. His titted flock managed to fan out in all directions. And thanks God for that! Of course, Yakov loved his skaters a lot – each one of them – but one more minute of listening to their chaotic gibberish could’ve ended fatally for him! Eh… if only Igor was with him.

Feltsman sighed deeply. He didn’t understand why his friend was so biased against banquets. Well… okay, Antonov did have some kind of a trauma after 1981 when he got drunk with several glasses of champagne, what lead to him starting a dance off in which he included a striptease show… but why would he _completely stop_ attending parties for a reason like that? Inconceivable!

 _I don’t understand it at all!_ Yakov thought, shaking his head. _After all I got hammered together with him and we were dancing to that fucking amazing Joan Jett’s song ‘Bad Reputation’. I’ve got tape with that lady’s songs in my car for a reason… and after all, Vronkov was dancing as well and he got walloped! What a pity nobody was recording…_

A corner of Feltsman’s mouth raised at the memory… and it fell a few seconds later. The fifty-year-old coach remembered how the incident ended for Antonov – he got hit on his face by Ekaterina Vronkova. She was aiming for Alexei, but the sly, old prick ducked and Igor got hit instead of him. Poor guy…

By the way, he wondered who was going to win today’s bet? Eh, the Prissy Wanker and his Hellish Empress were nowhere to see yet… Maybe they hadn’t arrived yet? Maybe they _weren’t going to arrive at all? Ha-ha, yeah. Sure._

Each banquet differed from all the others in some way, but there were always three things to be sure of:

First – Vronkov and his wife always appear.

Second – Vronkov gets scolded by his wife.

Third – Yakov makes fun of how Vronkov got scolded and a heated argument starts.

Feltsman sighed again. All of that was so predictable it was almost _boring_. After decades of attending parties like that, Yakov realised nothing surprised him anymore. Before, he could at least spend some time in Lilia’s company, but now… Really, it would’ve been so much more pleasant to stay at home! But what could he do?

Sighing even once more, the bored divorcee decided to spill some more juice and then he would go and find a good friend of his, Maria Beatriz Gonzales. The American-Guatemalan coach was a bit mean time to time, but her company offered many entertainments – such as calling the dancing snort-nosed kids off. It was better than nothing.

Reaching for the jug, Yakov’s hand bumped against another hand. When he realised whose hand it was, the fifty-year-old man straightened up.

 _The goddamned Murphy’s law…_ Yakov clenched his teeth. _For fuck’s sake!_

Let’s think for a while… who could he encounter by the table full of _soft drinks_? What age group could someone who picked orange juice over champagne be in?

‘Mister Feltsman…’ Max Levin, dressed in a stylish suit, nodded at his former coach politely. ‘I didn’t think you would come.’

The young skater’s voice was just a little cold. A little. But even a little could hurt a lot.

Yakov could hide his emotion well. When he was pouring juice into a glass, his hands didn’t shake a bit. Handling the glass in one hand and keeping the other one clenched into a fist in his pocket, he turned to Max.

‘My girls placed high,’ he said, trying not to express anything but pride and cold self-control. ‘Verechka is a Vice World Champion. Of course I came. And, to be honest… I would’ve come even if all my skaters failed at the competition.’

‘Right,’ his ex-student said nastily. ‘After all, the competitor’s good results are just a _secondary matter_ to you.’

Yakov didn’t respond instantly. If it was someone else, he would’ve said something bitey, like: _You’ve been skating for a too short time and you’re too snotty to know what’s a secondary matter to me._

But it wasn’t just anyone. It was Max – a boy for whom only half a year ago Feltsman would buy a plane ticket to Japan so that he could watch the Olympic Games live. And saying that after all these years this boy spent at the _Champions’ Club_ he didn’t know what _really_ was a secondary matter to Feltsman… it would’ve been simply _offensive_.

Not given the answer from his former coach, the young skater said: ‘I’m happy you’ve come after all. I hoped I would be able to talk to you. I’d like to tell you that… even though I’m still angry at what happened... I understand that we’re going to see each other at banquets and competitions regularly, so it would be good if we were polite with each other. I don’t intend to disrespect you in any way. I forgive you.’

The fact he said that in a voice of fucking Jesus granting absolution to Pilate was even more distressing and annoying.

 _You forgive me?!_ Yakov wanted to bark. _WHAT are you supposed to forgive me? That I cared about you and about your health, that I thought of your career as a WHOLE and not only about the bloody World Championships, and that I made you to have that knee surgery? The surgery I paid for with my own money, although you don’t know that because I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me something so I left it unsaid!’_

But he didn’t say any of these. He didn’t want to sink to the level of a self-righteous kid by getting dragged into a debate without any sense. He was too tired for that.

‘Max…’ he spoke up, putting his palm against his forehead, ‘we’ve talked about that so many times that I’m starting to feel _sick_ of that matter. I tried to explain you for a _million_ times why you needed that surgery and you talked back a _million_ times in the same way. I think that after all these quarrels we’ve both realised we’re _not going to work things out_ in that case, so for me there’s no sense in making comments on your gracious statement that you „forgive me”. And what’s about „not disrespecting me”…’ Yakov folded his arms and looked at Max meaningfully, ‘I think that you’ve made that promise a little too late, don’t you think? After all, you were talking rather a lot in your last interview.’

The boy bristled. He backed up a little as well. His posture reminded Yakov of defensive position of a frightened prey – he had no idea what to do, so he tried to look threatening.

‘T-the communism you’ve been raised in belongs to the past!’ he stated, raising his chin up with pride. ‘There’s freedom of speech now! I can say whatever I want.’

‘Of course you can say whatever you want!’ Yakov snorted. ‘I don’t intend to forbid you berating me publicly. I’m old, Max. It’s not the first time someone says something unflattering about me. At some age, you start to understand than many displeasures are simply a part of the sport’s world. I’m not going to slit my wrists because my student said a few unpleasant words about me. But, you know what…’ Yakov narrowed his eyes, ‘you could’ve spared naming Rykov and Popovich. I’m just one thing. But Georgi and Lyov are still _children_. The last thing they need is someone publicly calling them no-talents and delinquents. I understand you’re still just a fourteen-year-old brat so you may lack savoir-faire, but I thought you would be at least a bit more decent.’

‘That’s you being not decent!’ Levin hissed. ‘My brother got beaten up brutally, and you…’

‘Max,’ the former coach interrupted him, ‘I know you’re loyal to Ivanko, I understand why, I had a brother myself and I loved him deeply as well… but please do both of us a favour and don’t act like you’re an _idiot_. Because all what you say imply you’re either incredibly stupid or you pretend that you are. You know Ivanko is a foot taller than Lyov and that he’s pretty experienced at beating the crap out of people. If he got punched by someone, then it was just because he _let_ someone punch him. And he let that happen because he’s intelligent, calculating and he’s got a need of putting salt in the game of whoever endangers his status of the most powerful kid in the group. Turning a blind eye on his antics, both you and your mother _hurt him_. He knows that you’d buy every single one of his lies and find a reason for all of his stunts, so he feels he can get away with everything. Not like I’m blameless in that case… maybe if I was more harsh for him and remind him of the order of things more often all of that wouldn’t’ve happened? Eh, nevermind that… we can only hope Ivanko will get pacified in the new club. Vronkov, out of all people, _surely_ won’t let him for the stunts.’

Max opened his mouth to talk him back, but he didn’t have time for that, as someone standing next to them started clapping.

 _Oho,_ Yakov thought, _speak of the devil._

Alexei Vronkov looked just as always – skinny, bald, with Lenin’s style beard. He was walking around in a beige suit for two thousand rubles, but surprisely without the goofy tie with green stripes. He was patting his wrist with one hand, and holding a polished, black cane with a gold, diamond-shaped end in the other. The old prick didn’t have a limp, so people were constantly wondering what the hell did he need a cane for… Some thought that Vronkov wanted to have something cooler than Yakov’s gold signet ring. Others, that he was carrying it around so that he could have something to defend himself from his wife. Both versions seemed to be quite probable.

‘Well said, Faltsman,’ Vronkov sang, smiling teasingly.

‘I’m glad you liked it,’ Yakov responded in an ice-cold voice.

‘Max, would you be so nice and accompany my granddaughter?’ the bald arsehole spoke to Levin. ‘She wanted you to dance with her very much. In the meantime, me and Felstan will have a nice talk like good, old friends. Well, come on! Flee, kid!’

Being called a ‘kid’, the boy flinched softly. Giving his former coach one more cold look, he walked towards the girl standing at the other side of the room. The rivals were finally _alone_.

 _Okay, Feltsman, calm down,_ Yakov told himself, taking a sip of his juice. _That wanky arsehole is going to ask you about the divorce. Keep calm and answer like you didn’t mind it at all._

Smirking, Vronkov spoke up: ‘How’s you divorce, Feltsman?’

_Bingo!_

Feltsman finished his juice without hurry, and then he answered mildly: ‘Thanks for asking, very well. Everything has been handled a few months ago. And how’s your _happy_ marriage?’ The bald man went red at his rival’s ironic look. ‘Or I’d rather say „mal-riage”?’

As if on cue, a shadow appeared behind Vronkov. A dark creature that walked out of the crowd had dark hair tied in a bun, a diamond ring shining on one of her clawy fingers, a pair of threatening diamond earrings and a pair of even more threatening brown eyes.

‘Alexei…’ Katya Vronkova’s voice sounded like the voice of the devil himself. And the world _himself_ should be emphasized! Her voice was low, deep and so frightening, that it would have no trouble ruling the whole Russian Army.

Hearing his own name said by his _beloved_ spouse, Vronkov started to sweat. With eyeballs moving all the way round, he turned stiffly to face Katerina. When he saw her razor-sharp fingernails on her hips and the tense muscles reaching out from the dress’s sleeves, he tightened fingers around the crane nervously.

‘Y-yes, honey?’ he squealed.

 _Yuh-uh!_ Yakov was as excited as it was possible. _He’s going to get scolded! The question is, what for: the clothing or the behaviour? Ooh, I can’t wait…_

‘Alexei,’ Katerina roared, ‘zip up your fly _immediately_! If I see you _once more_ walking around at the banquet with your fly down, I will ensure you won’t have anything to hide in your trousers anymore. _Do you understand me?_ ’

‘O-of course, honey! _I’m sorry!_ ’

While the bald arsehole’s fingers tried to deal with the little zip, Feltsman scratched his head.

 _God damn it!_ The _Champions’ Club_ runner was completely confused. _What category is an unzipped fly in, the clothing or the behaviour?! For fuck’s sake, woman… couldn’t you be more PRECISE?! Now I can’t decide on who’s won the bet!_

‘Your skater won silver, Feltsman.’ Katya nodded at Yakov. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks.’

Feltsman raised his glass in a polite gesture. He knew that unlike his wanky husband, Vronkova would compliment him frankly, without any hidden agenda.

‘Her free programme was quite eye-pleasing,’ she stated, moving her manicured finger on her lower lip. ‘Although… I think the Axel wasn’t fully rotated?’

‘It wasn’t,’ Yakov admitted with a sigh. ‘The judges must’ve been generous and didn’t call it. Vera wasn’t doing her best, but she executed most of her jumps well. She deserved high technical score.’

‘What for, I’m wondering?’ Vronkov mumbled.

‘No one asked you for an opinion, Alexei,’ Katerina barked.

‘Sorry, honey.’

The conceited patsy shut his mouth meekly… but started to move his feet impatiently. Most probably he couldn’t wait until his wife would go mind her own business so that he can speak to his rival alone. Eh… Yakov always wondered how Katerina had Alexei marry her. She must’ve blackmailed him. There was no way any _sane_ man would get himself in marriage like that all willingly.

‘Yet her Biellmann position was perfect,’ Vronkova continued in a thoughtful voice. ‘Your student’s split is quite impressive, Feltsman. When I look at her, I can’t help but think of your former partner, Tatyana Lubicheva. Her name is McKenzie now, am I right?’

‘It’s Lubicheva-McKenzie,’ Yakov corrected her. ‘She married an American. She lives with her husband in California.’

‘What a pity she’s not at the banquet. I heard she’s in Europe right now.’

‘She’s got family in Lithuania. Her cousin had a baby recently and Tatyana came for the christening. When we spoke last time on the phone, she told me she wouldn’t come to Russia, because she’s got an ice show in San Francisco. Once she gets everything in Lithuania done, she’s coming back to the States right away.’

‘Could we stop speaking about that bleached-out witch?’ Vronkov mumbled, scratching the tip of his cane angrily.

‘So now you’re going to tell me what can I talk about, Alexei?’ Katerina looked at her husband like a devil would look at a sinner.

‘N-no!’ The bald man started waving his hands in panic. ‘K-Katya, honey, of course not! H-how in Earth could I… ahem… really, honey, where did that idea come from?’

‘And, by the way, Tatyana is a natural blonde, _Alexei_ ,’ Yakov emphasized the world, smirking teasingly.

‘I think Alexei’s mind is blonde as well,’ Vronkova claimed. ‘After all, all these reserves of stupidity didn’t come from _nowhere_. Oh, I see they’ve brought the caviar snacks! I’ll get some for myself before everything best gets taken away. You’d better not _fuck around_ when I’m gone, Alexei. If you embarrass my beloved granddaughter, you’re going to regret that. It was nice to see you, Feltsman.’

After the Ice Empress left, the bearded wanker got seemingly more comfortable. He started to glare at Yakov intensely as well. Actually… he _always_ glared at him intensely – intensely and quite teasingly… but now he was staring at him _even more intensively._ As if he’d been excited by something. What could’ve stood behind that?

Feltsman came to the conclusion that he didn’t want to know. ‘I’ll go and grab something to eat as well,’ he said, putting his glass on the table. ‘As your wife pointed out, we should hurry up before the best treats disappear from plates.’

‘You’re leaving so fast?’ Vronkov blew a raspberry. ‘I thought we could talk a little.’

‘Waht are we supposed to talk about? Do you think I’m going to stay here and listen to your quips like an obedient dog? I’m sorry, Vronkov, but you’re wrong. If you wanted to bully me, I’m afraid you will have to wait untill the next banquet when I can get hammered and more eager for arguments. Today I’ve got a car, a shitty mood and four girls to tkae care of. And I don’t really feel like having the conversation about Max and the divorce for the fuckteenth time.’

‘Oh, and who said we would talk about Max or about your divorce?’ the bald prick chirruped with a grin on his face. ‘I thought we could talk about something else. Can’t I get you motivated to stay in some way? Don’t you want to… ask me about something?’

‘Ask you?’ Feltsman raised his eyebrow. ‘About what?’

‘For example… how much do I want for _the rink_.’

Yakov needed whole ten seconds to realise what these words meant. When he did, his heart stopped for a moment. At least it felt like it did, if the piercing pain in the chest was some kind of a mark. Count an unpleasantly dry throat and a bit of dizziness as well.

_No. For fuck’s sake, no… it is NOT happening._

It was impossible… there was no chance that out of all scenarios about the rink’s buyer that Yakov predicted, the _worst and the most improbable_ one was the one that was true! Holy heavens! God couldn’t be _that_ malicious. Where were these famous reserves of mercy that the Creator was supposed to give out right and left?! If Father in Heaven was so great and merciful, why was he so mean to Yakov Feltsman, destroying his relationship with the beloved woman, placing his most precious student under the protection of _the worst knave walking this Earth_ and finally giving Yakov’s beloved ice rink out to _that very same knave?!_

If only it was a dream… a nightmare that he would wake up from! But it wasn’t. Yakov was perfectly sure that the wild satisfaction pictured on Vronkov’s face was utterly genuine. What was worse… Feltsman was perfectly sure that on his own face there was only despair and terror. No self-respecting warrior would face his opponent with _an expression like that_. Despite that, the cornered man didn’t try to wear a mask of calm and self-control. It was the first time in his life when _he was not able to do so_. He was trapped.

Having the _Champions’ Club_ in his hand, Vronkov might as well hold a knife against Lilka’s throat. Both situations would have the same meaning for Yakov. No matter how much it would hurt him… no matter how much his pride would be screaming in pain, Feltsman had no other choice than letting his opponent whip him.

Taking a deep breath, he let himself have some time to calm down and instead of asking his rival for his demands, he went for something easier… something more neutral.

‘So you have bought _my_ ice rink… how did you manage to do that? Of course, you have your connections, but they’re not _that huge_.’

He was shocked by his own voice. He didn’t expect himself to sound so _peaceful_ in a situation like that.

‘I wed my youngest daughter with the special ops commander,’ Vronkov said proudly.

Yakov wondered. ‘Your youngest daughter? Do you mean the one who never admits you’re her father and calls you a deceitful dickhead whenever an opportunity comes?’

Vronkov went red. ‘Maybe Polinechka doesn’t like me that much, but my son-in-law is eating out of my hand!’ he burst out, turning his eyes away from Yakov and scratching the nape of his neck. ‘There’s one thing you have to keep in mind, Feltsman: you may have some conflicts with your favourite child, but you always have to get your in-laws on side. But…’ he smirked at Yakov, ‘not that you’re going to need that advice anytime soon. You don’t have your own children, after all. You don’t even have any _chance_ of having children. And, after all… they say your wife was of no use, anyway.’

The fear and distress escaped Feltsman’s mind at the speed of light. ‘You’d better not offend Lilia when I am around,’ Yakov warned him.

‘Oh, so it was your fault, after all?’ Vronkov giggled. ‘So you’re impotent?’

‘As if it mattered for you. Anyway, I warn you, if you offend Lilia one more time I will recall all the incidents you could get whipped for by Katerina and I will announce them to the world even today. What kind of flowers would you like to have at you funeral? Do you prefer roses or tulips? What about lilies, so that everyone would know the reason why you kicked the bucket?’

Baranovskaya’s ex-husband was a man of his word, indeed. He wouldn’t have any chances against his greatest rival, if after all these years of being at each other’s throats he didn’t have any little hooks in the bearded dickhead. They both knew perfectly what were these hooks. And talking about lilies at the funeral was at most _a tiny_ exaggeration.

The bald wanker came to his senses and stopped offending Lilia. Whilst Yakov got himself calm enough to finally ask about the _certain matter._

‘Getting back to the rink… how much do you want? Or rather… _what do you want_? I don’t really think you’d like me to become a bankrupt. Your motifs tend to be nastier and more sophisticated.’

‘You’re right. I don’t want you to become a bankrupt.’

‘So _whatt_ do you want me to do, then? Am I supposed to beg you? Do you want me to get down on my knees?’

Fuck, even if he was to throw his guts up of anger, he would do that! His ego would die a natural death, but whatever! For the _Champions’ Club_ , Yakov could do everything. Including dressing up as Father Christmas and giving out lollipops to spoilt brats. And kissing Stalin on his arse, if the wanker had been alive.

‘I don’t want to see you on your knees,’ Vronkov stated with his cold calm. ‘It’s your career I want to see on its knees.’

Feltsman couldn’t help a snort. ‘My career?’ He treated his rival to a bitterly amused look. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that, Vronkov? My career, as well as I, isn’t at its preliminary level, but rather middle-aged… or I could say even, retired. All that I could’ve ever achieved is already in the past. My sport achievements include several silver and bronze medals as well as the Olympic gold. You can’t change the past, so you can’t strip me of any of these achievements. So, excuse me, but how do you intend to bring my career to its knees?’

‘I wasn’t speaking about your athletic career. I was thinking of you as a coach.’

‘There’s _even less_ to talk about on that matter. Even though you’ve got more titles to your name than I have, our achievements as coaches are rather comparable. We had both bronze and silver medalists amongst our senior ladies and men as well as juniors. But none of them was ever a World Champion or an Olympic Champion. So we can agree we’re head-to-head.’

‘Are you really sure we’re going head-to-head?’

You didn’t need to be a genius to notice what that wanker was going for. To handle the words to be said better – the ones he could already feel floating in the air, like thunders sounding in the distance – Yakov poured himself another glass of juice. Consuming the cool drink should – partially, at least – draw his attention back from the pain.

‘Your best student finished working with you and started to skate with me.’ Vronkov was speaking slowly, as if he wanted to ensure each one of the words he said could be perfectly heard by the rival. ‘It’s probably the greatest offence to a coach. You had a golden egg, Feltsman… but the egg decided you won’t be able to hatch it. If Max stayed with you, he wouldn’t have hatched. Do you know why? Because I _do_.’

Feltsman was trying his best to focus on the taste of the oranges rather that on these horrible claims. The claims he had heard so many times before – on radio, on television… said by so many people…

‘The case is, you’re _not gifted_ , Feltsman. And neither are your students. All of your competitors that achieved anything matched one scheme: a hard-working _mediocre_. Just as that old dumb Novak, you raised a bunch of artistic skaters putting their blood and sweat to every single programme, but never able to skate a clean one.’

‘Watch what you say about Misha Novak,’ Yakov warned him.

‘I’m not offending him, I’m just telling the truth.’ Vronkov shrugged his shoulders. ‘All I had to do is to have a glance at that little star of yours, the Vice World Champion, Veronika Sokolova. The girl skates well, I have to admit that… but at her junior days, she was known best for poor edges and spoilt jumps. All that she’s got now, she got not from the talent, but from _years_ of hard work. Because the hard work is all you can work with. When you found Max, a great jumper with strong legs and _perfect_ predisposition, you got lost and you didn’t know what to do. You’d never been talented, so you _have no idea_ how to teach the talented people. That’s the law of nature, Feltsman. A pig won’t train a good racehorse. That’s not being nasty; that’s the biology.’

Yakov’s hand tightened around the glass. It was a surprise it didn’t break.

 _I can’t let him tell me such bullshit,_ Feltsman thought, determined. _If I believe any of that wanker’s words, it will make the whole ferns and cactuses lecture meaningless. By the way… I think Novak was saying something about horses and pigs as well? Eh, nevermind. Anyway, I can’t let him make chewing gum of my head! I won’t deny the theory I’ve been following throughout my whole life!_

That was what he told himself… but still, a grain of insecurity has been sown in his heart. Vronkov might’ve been a wanked dickhead and a deceitful cocroach… but at leat one of his claims was quite logical, indeed.

Yakov’s students really were usually called the hard-working mediocres. Well, it could’ve been connected with the fact the _Champions’ Club_ had difficulties getting young geniuses from the very beginning – the most talented ones were being caught by places like _Spartan_ or _Lenin_ at a very young age, and then selected following strict rules. Max had been ommitted, only because he was discovered at one of Yakov’s camps. Not that the young boy hadn’t been given any offers… Feltsman remembered perfectly well how several clubs would race each other to get Max. But the boy always was loyal to the _Champion_. Until once when he wasn’t.

‘Your teaching methods are a one thing,’ Vronkov continued, rubbing his chin. ‘But do you know what is your real problem, Feltsman? It’s how you get _attached_. They say you’re strict… that your circuit training brings hell to the Earth… but I know you and I know who you really are. The truth is, you can’t grab the whip and get off your students everything they should be capable of. You look at skaters and you see family… because coachie Novak got you to think that it’s possible to make a family out of that pile of bricks called the _Champions’ Club_.’

‘I think I’ve told you not to offend Novak when I am around?’ Yakov barked out in an ice-cold voice.

The bald arsehole ignored the threat. ‘You were able to control it until now… But you have to admit you got a bit carried off with Levin.’ He smiled as if he’d been asking his rival to smash him in his face with a jug (Yakov refrained himself from doing it, mostly because of the juice). ‘You cared about that boy a lot, didn’t you? You cared about him more than about others. He was growing up without his father so you felt obliged to stand as one for him, and started to imagine who knows what sorts of things. He told me about that, you know? That he was full of your parental impulses. You don’t have your own children and that’s why…’

‘Don’t drain me with all that bullshit, Vronkov,’ Yakov interrupted the smug bastard with a sigh. ‘We haven’t started that talk to analyse my ‘parental impulses’ or whatever you called it… I suppose you relieved your need of annoying me, so do me a favour and get to the point. _What_ do you want me to do to get you to sell the rink to me?’

‘I want you to admit that you’ve lost,’ Vronkov hissed. ‘Admit that I am a better coach, announce your retirement and move out from old Novak’s office. Do it, and then I will sell your beloved rink to you for the price I’ve paid for it. Not a single ruble more, I swear it.’

Retirement? Actually… Feltsman had this word in his mind several times. Divorcees abandoned by their favourite students were quite vulnerable to a range of stupid ideas. Fortunately, hardship didn’t make anyone lose their minds completely. Crises would come along and then leave, and Yakov would always give up the idea of retiring – first as a figure skater, and then as a coach.

But what could he do in _a situation like that_?! He still had a choice, but…

At the moment, Feltsman glanced at the skaters standing by the snack bar. Vera and Sonya – who had qualified for the Olympics – were being complimeted by Maria Gonzales. Blushing and smiling shyly, they were listening as the woman, said to be one of the most picky coaches, praised their Lutzes and spins. The sight moved Yakov a bit.

The heir of Misha Novak clenched his fists. He didn’t know how the story would end like… but he knew very well how it _couldn’t_ end like!

‘I believe you wouldn’t trick me,’ he said to Vronkov, ‘but I decline your offer.’

The bearded arsehole’s eyes widened. ‘I’m shocked. I thought you loved that pile of bricks.’

‘I do love it, indeed.’

_As you said yourself, that ‘pile of bricks’ is something more than a building for me. It’s family._

‘So why do you decline?’ Vronkov asked, raising his eyebrow.

‘For three reasons. First, if I have retired now, everyone would think I did it because of Max. I would admit that he was right. It would look like atonement. And even if it wouldn’t, people would think that brat got me broken… which would be even worse. Second, maybe you forgot about it, but two of my skaters are going to the Games. I’ve been coaching them since they were little and I won’t let them down when they’re preparing for the most important competition in their lives. And third…’

Yakov Feltsman treated his rival to the very same as in 1995, at the World Championships banquet as well. He looked at Alexei Vronkov in exactly the same way then. With eyes telling that neither a toilet seats breaking brat flooded with tears, nor a moulded by his live divorcee would let anyone look down on him.

‘I won’t put an end to my career only because a smug arsehole gave me an ultimatum. I will decide myself when I will pick up my toys and move out from my office. And it won’t be when you will tell me to do it. You won’t take that satisfaction, Vronkov.’

‘And if I told you I would level the rink?’

Feltsman’s heart got overwhelmed with fear for a moment… but the _Champions’ Club_ protector got rid of it, made himself hold his nerve and stated strongly: ‘My answer would stay as a „no”.’

 _I love that pile of bricks…_ he thought, swallowing a gulp, _but when I think more deeply I can see that a pile of bricks is just what it looks like… a pile of bricks. We can move to another rink and practise there. Of course it will hurt… moving out from the place that smells of our sweat and blood HAS to be painful… but it’s still better than following the will of a smug dickhead._

Speaking of smug dickheads, one thing couldn’t leave Yakov’s head. ‘By the way, Vronkov… tell me, because I’m incredibly curious: _why_ are you doing this?’ he asked without a glimpse of nervousity, in a calm, even a little bit tired voice. ‘What is the point? Of course we don’t like each other and we’ve been rivals for years, but we’ve never been _straight motherfuckers_ to each other. I admit, if there was a show focused on hanging you by your privates over a fire I would buy a first-row ticket… and still, when your _Spartan_ was being privatised _it didn’t even cross my mind_ to spite you and buy it secretly. And to be honest… I wouldn’t say you’d been a guy who’d have done something like that _either_. So tell me… _why_? Why now?’

‘You ask me „why”?’ Vronkov snorted. ‘Because I got _bored_ with our rivalry, Feltsman. We’ve been passing a ball for years, but none of us ever wins. I want _the showdown_! I want someone to announce, lo and behold, who is the winner. I hated ties since I was little. They piss me off, because they never let anyone to be in their own glory. Well… only a few years back our skirmishes were entertaining, but they’re _not_ anymore to me. Do you know why? Because you’ve become a divorced shadow of your old self, without his leading champion, with a few mediocre juniors… and with your favourite student, or rather a _former_ student, who doesn’t want to know you anymore. What is more, from all possible coaches to choose from, that student has chosen me, your greatest rival. _You’ve lost_ , Feltsman. It’s high time to admit it.’

‘Maybe I am a shadow of my old self,’ Yakov started, ‘but at least I’m not a dirty coward. I may be a shadow of a man, but you’re a scared _lady_ , Vronkov. ‘Cause only a dirty coward or a scared _missy_ wins the fight by preventing the opponent from entering the ring… not even being enough of a man to put on the gloves and start the fight. And that’s what buying the rink behind my back was. I must admit you’ve disappointed me. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind you could get satisfied with a showdown without any show. I thought you could do better.’

After saying that, he felt there was nothing left to say. He turned around and walked towards the table with champagne. There was no point in prolonging the talk. What had to be told, had been told. All that was left to do was to get numbed out with a bit of alcohol, dance, pay some brat for driving, sleep off all the revelations of the evening, wake up with the hangover of the year and finally begin the slow and painful process of ‘accepting one’s fate’.

 _How am I going to tell the guys?_ Yakov wondered, pressing his palm against his forehead. _Or the girls? Eh, that’s going to be a drag…_

‘Wait,’ he heard Vronkov’s voice behind him.

The _Champion_ ’s main coach stopped, waiting to hear another biting remark. How surprised he was when after turning around he saw his rival standing with a hand on his hip and _deadly serious_ expression. More serious than ever.

‘You know what, Feltsman? You’re right. I don’t want our noble rivalry to end like that. Let’s end this thing by doing what we’re best at. Let’s bet.’

At the first moment, Yakov blinked. Then he tilted his head back and burst into laughter. ‘Another bet? Don’t you think we’re a little too old for that? I thought we were past all these messed up bets. After the posters incident…’

‘NOT A SINGLE WORD ABOUT THE POSTERS!’ Vronkov’s face was more red than the Red Army.

Yakov rolled his eyes. ‘Why do you lash out? It was your idea.’

‘Maybe it was mine, but…’ The bearded fellow pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a drop of sweat off his bald, ‘well, fuck, nevermind! I’m not talking about some teeny-tiny, little bet. I want it to be the final match between the two of us.’

‘Oh. And for that „final battle”, are we supposed to run around Peterburg together and slingshot policemen, spin on top of the Winter Palace, or maybe do something even more stupid? Vronkov… maybe you’d better go to a doctor and check if your wife hadn’t hit your head a little too hard. We’re _fifty years old_. Thanks, but I’ll say no.’

Shaking his head, Feltsman turned to walk away. Really… he thought it was only him going mad for his old age.

‘If you win, _I will give you the damn ice rink for free!_ ’

Yakov stopped. He thought he overheard. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said you will get it.’ The bearded man’s eyes were cold and fierce. ‘The ice rink. For free. If you win.’

‘Vronkov, I wasn’t joking about the doctor. Well, not that I would mind a deal like that… but don’t you think it would be a little too much? You want to bet on the rink?’

Vronkov wondered for a while. ‘It wasn’t _that expensive_ ,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Or… well, no, it was quite expensive, actually. I had to give up on buying an amazing jumbo-jet to get it.’

‘You had to give up on buying a plane?’ Yakov blurted out. ‘How traumatizing it must’ve been.’

‘I’m confident enough to bet on your beloved dump. Let’s put an end to it once and for all, Feltsman. Let’s state who is the better coach.’

‘And how do you want to do it? Get some boffins sitting around a table and compare our achievements?’

‘Of course not. It would be damn boring.’

‘So how you see it?’

Grumping in annoyance, the bald arsehole folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. He was thinking intensively for at least a minute before he spoke up again, ‘you don’t have any men skater at the moment. I don’t have any ladies. We both have some juniors… but I think we both agree that nobody younger than sixteen would be able to compete with Max, right?’

‘That’s right,’ Yakov admitted reluctantly, ‘I must agree.’

‘So let’s sort it out with a duel of kids. Each of us will pick a child no older than eleven.’

Feltsman hesitated. The voice of reason was telling him: ‘Oh, come on, you old man… are you mad? A children’s duel? It’s idiotic! Seriously, you even consider it?’, but the other, more important voice, tempting as the snake from _the Book of Genesis_ kept saying: ‘The ice rink for free, the ice rink for free, the ice rink for free, the ice rink for free, oh, and if Vronkov loses he’s going to feel so bummed and blue and dicky…’

‘Any rules?’ Yakov asked finally. ‘Music? The programme’s length? Jumps allowed?’

‘Free-for-all. It won’t be an official competition, so we don’t have to limit ourselves. And we shouldn’t get any professional judges involved. It would be pointless. We’ll ask five coaches who we know well and who won’t get bribed… say that old witch, Gonzales. There will be no points, no technical score, no artistic score. The jury will simply take notes and vote on either my or your student. You’ve always been moping the judging system is not fair, right? You won’t have anything to fuss about.’

‘Okay, and when do you want to do it? Remember that whoever we’re going to as will have their own plans. It won’t be easy to get five hard-working people to come to Petersburg at the same time.’

‘You know anything about the _Ice Palace_?’

_Ice Palace… Ice Palace… where have I… aah! Of course!_

‘That huge hockey rink they’ve been building? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.’

It was hard not to, taking into account how often the Governor Yakovlev was praising it on TV.

‘They’re planning to finish it before the Hockey World Championships…’ Vronkov said, ‘BUT a little bird told me that someone miscalculated their budget and they may need a few more rubles to finish up some small but important details. And what should the authorities do in such case? Resign from holding the Championships? Or maybe get a little cash infusion, inviting to the beautiful arena skaters who don’t need so many conveniences as hockey players?’

It rang a bell in Feltsman’s mind. ‘Ah, yes. I heard they want to organise an Ice Show before the official opening. I heard some birds speaking as well.’

‘That’s right. They’re going to hold a show there in a year. Right after the Worlds.’

Yakov was thrown off the track. ‘A year of time?’ he repeated in unbelief. ‘You want to want one year to settle our bet?’

‘You can’t say it’s a bad idea.’ His rival raised his eyebrow. ‘The Olympics are just round the corner, so we both have our hands full. We’d better wait until all the fuss about the Games blows over. And also… you need time to get a ten-year-old to skate a decent programme. I will get the tapes off that falling apart dump of yours, so that our chances are equal. Until the bet is settled, you can practise just as you did before. I won’t take any money from you. You only have to figure out all the water and electricity bills. As I told you before, it’s not one of our childish fights, so we’re going to write down all the rules the way the good Lord intended, in writing, with a solicitor… and with my wife so that you can be sure that in case I didn’t keep my end of the bargain, I would end up beaten up to death and you could get some lilies for my grave.’

Riiight, the last point was quite convincing. If that henpecked bastard decided to implicate his sadistic wife in the case, then he had no other choice than playing fair.

‘All’s clear and fair, Feltsman,’ Vronkov highlighted. ‘You’ve got your own stable, and I’ve got mine. We both have got a young horse, and we’re both starting in a race next year.’

‘And if I win, I get the rink?’

‘The rink and everything that surrounds it, counting each fallen tree. If you win.’

Yakov imagined that: becoming the owner of the _Champions’ Club_. He couldn’t remember for how long he wanted to become one. He’d probably got it from his own coach? Novak would always sigh and say how much he could do if only the _Champion_ wasn’t state owned… if it was owned by someone who _cared_.

‘But,’ Vronkov’s cold voice broke through the perfect dream, ‘if you lose, you will stop being a figure skating coach. You won’t coach anyone. Anyone, ever. And I will reduce your beloved _Champion_ to rubble.’

And again; Yakov imagined himself: this time losing the bet. Becoming a sad loser with no job _and with no rink_. A scenario like that would strike others as well. All skaters in the club would be affected by his loss. It would be a catastrophe. The game over. From more than one point of view.

‘Of course, my last offer is still up-to-date.’ The bearded wanker was smirking at his rival, stroking the edge of the cane. ‘You can always forget about the bet and simply _buy_ the rink. Just as I said, I will sell it, provided that you retire immediately.’

A waiter happened to be passing them. He was holding two plates: both with pirozhkis. One of them on the table in his left hand had been sliced in half. It was stuffed with meat. Yakov hated meat pirozhkis.

It was hard to tell anything about pirozhkis on the plate in waiter’s right hand. They could be with anything. Maybe with delicious potatoes, cream cheese and fried onions… or with fucking spinach. Feltsman felt like throwing up for the mere thought of the damn weed.

The _Champions’ Club_ main coach wondered if he would pick the table on the right if he couldn’t ask the waiter what the pirozhkis were stuffed with? And could he take the risk when it wasn’t a matter of pirozhkis, but something much more important? His career? A place dear to his heart just like home?

Or maybe he should listen to the voice of reason and pick the meat stuffing – the one he didn’t like, but at least he was sure he wouldn’t throw up after eating it? Wasn’t swallowing his pride and simply buying the damn rink the best option of all – for everyone?

A polished cane stopped the waiter from moving any further. The boy was so surprised he almost dropped the plates. Yakov and Vronkov stared at each other’s eyes.

‘So what will you do?’ The bearded wanker tilted his head mockingly. ‘Are you picking up your toys and making the deal…’

He went silent, letting Yakov feel the smell of pirozhkis surrounding them, and then he finished in an ice-cold whisper: ‘…or are you playing va banque?’

 

**Dear Reader!**

If you liked the story, **leave kudos! <3**

If you want to give the Author (and the humble translator) some motivation, **leave a comment! :)**

 

xXx 

 

* _Woman’s Weekly –_ a British women’s magazine; not the most popular one, but still very popular and with quite obvious name (unlike _Take a Break,_ for example). In the original, there’s a title of a popular Polish women’s magazine.

xXx

 

**Trivia:**

* The Mayor of Sankt Petersburg (it took me some time to check who had that authority in the Russian city…) in 1996-2003 was Vladimir Yakovlev.

* The Ice Palace, or the Lodovy Dvorets is an actual sport venue in Sankt Petersburg, built for the Hockey World Championships. It was finished in 2000, but for the story I’ve speeded things up, so shhh. I’m wondering how many of you thought of the Ice Castle Hasetsu while reading ^^?

* Yakov’s favourite skater, Denise Biellmann (whom the famous spinning position was named after) really danced samba. You can watch it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QhrykT8ags) :)

* For those who don’t know, I’d like to remind that in 1997 the old judging system was still present, known as the 6.0 system.

* Yakov and Vronkov were talking about the Olympic Games in Nagano, held in February, 1998.

* My grandfather had a white Honda. A wonderful car :)

* Joan Jett’s song _Bad Reputation_ to which Yakov, Igor and Vronkov were dancing in 1981 is the same song that is heard when Shrek beats up Farquad’s (have I spelled it correctly?) knights. Here's the [link to that song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRu5wxl5frk), as well as to [I love Rock and Roll.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFHg0uRAyVs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s Note]
> 
> I suppose most of you are asking yourselves – where the heck is Viktor?! And who are all these Maxes, Lyovs, Ivankos when Yakov was coaching Viktor?! You can stay calm – Vitenka will appear in Yakov’s life quite soon and he’s going to make some noise ;) And when he gets in the shot, he won’t leave it for quite a while – that’s just how he’s like, after all :P
> 
> Be patient, because you will be able to watch your beloved Viktor quite soon, and what’s more, you will watch him in… hmm… a quite interesting eight-year-old version :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Translator's Note]
> 
> I’m glad I’ve managed to translate this chapter so quickly! But you have to be patient; I have no idea when I will manage to translate the next one, I hope it won’t take me more than two (and a half) weeks…
> 
> I’m sorry if there are more mistakes in this chapter, but I’ve been translating majority in the middle of the night and I had some HUGE spelling errors, so I could’ve just overseen some.
> 
> I’ve made some tiny, little corrections of names in the previous chapter – if I remember well, the only issue I had was with Lilia’s name (and Maria’s in this chapter); I couldn’t figure out if I should spell it with ‘-ia’ or with ‘-ya’. But after I took a look at Russian Cyrillic spelling, it’s become quite clear :D I also moved the 'trivia' to the chapter box, so that I could add links to videos.
> 
> By the way, Lyov Rykov (or Lev Rykov; both spellings are correct as far as I know, but I prefer the first one) means ‘Lion’s Roar’ in Russian.


	3. Chapter 2: No chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘If you were to win that bet, you’d have to… erm… well… for example…’  
> ‘Write a letter to Father Christmas to give you as a Christmas present a little genius who would break world records and win the Grand Prix five times in a row!’  
> Are all of my characters prophets ^^? Read to find out!

‘HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!’

The scream was so loud that several people turned their heads to glance at the table where three men were playing cards. Even the barman stopped polishing a glass and craned his neck to find out what was all the fuss about.

A slim brown-haired man, an unkempt blond and a nervous guy with broad shoulders and a ponytail were sitting nearby the bar counter, right next to a huge _Star Wars_ poster. It was not the only image of Vader’s threatening self – as the regular barflies knew, the venue’s owner was a serious fantasy and science-fiction addict. And apparently, Sankt Petersburg got addicted to winter – despite it was May already, the city was still freezing. The wild snow storm outside perfectly complimented the face of the man sitting with his back turned towards the window.

‘My mind is perfectly fine, thanks for asking,’ Yakov said in a cold voice. ‘You’re taking a discard or from the stockpile?’

Igor Antonov did neither. Just as Pavlo Kapustin did, he kept staring at Feltsman. The shock they were in caused both the manager and the physiotherapist to drop their hands flat on the table, showing what both men had in their ‘arsenals’.

‘I can see your cards,’ Yakov blurted out, nodding at their paper fans.

At the same time, he mumbled a swear word. His friends were ready to meld their cards – Igor and Pavlo had strong sequences with the Carol, the Dame and the Fag (how Feltsman used to call the King, the Queen and the Jack). And what Yakov was holding? Nearly all were Ducks, Butts or Boats! And not a single Royal… not a single one! He’d be lucky if he could collect fifty one points before the hand ends, it would be a fucking miracle!

‘Stand down,’ Pavlo said. ‘Your situation is hopeless. You won’t make it work.’

Yakov glared at him. ‘So what am I supposed to do? Throw my cards? I’ve got no choice, I have to play with what I’ve got.’

‘He wasn’t talking about the Rummy,’ Igor said with a sigh. ‘He meant your bet with Vronkov.’

‘I got what he was talking about,’ Feltsman mumbled. ‘And I said I’m not going to stand down. I will face that bald, henpecked moron. More importantly, you’re delaying the game. Make up your mind, you’re taking the Gay Club or not?’ He tapped on the Jack of Clubs.

Antonov took the said card, melded and discarded a card… which was taken by Pavlo. He went for melding as well. As a result the manager and the physiotherapist were holding just a few cards in their hands, while Yakov still had all fourteen cards. Feltsman mumbled another swear word: his situation was hopeless INDEED.

 _Maybe I should get me some vodka?_ He wondered. _On the other side… what if I get a stomach ache AGAIN?_

The _Champions’ Club_ protector shrugged. Since the banquet, he’d had a horrible diarrhoea – the result of devouring fourty seven pierozhkis. Two more than Vronkov. After all, they had to celebrate ‘the last showdown’ somehow, and each other’s rivals decided that a perfect way to do it… would be an another bet. This time, about who eats more pierozhkis. So they sat and ate.

They threw out the last ten ones. The rest thirty-something, they’ve been exuding for the next few days through ‘the other side’. They even ran into each other in a pharmacy once – their fight for the last laxative was epic, they almost started a literal fight, but luckily the wise pharmacist prevented bloodshed just in time by telling them to resolve the dispute by playing rock-paper-scissors. Yakov won by a miracle. Not that it helped him in any way… The troubling stomach pains wouldn’t go away no matter what he did! Maybe it was because… it wasn’t the fault of pirozhkis?

Feltsman swallowed a gulp. He had a gut feeling that the real reason for the prolonging stomach ailments was not the amounts of food he’d eaten, but the stress. The awareness of the showdown coming. The awareness of the consequences tied with losing. The explosive combination of excitement, doubt and fear.

Yakov knew the horrible feeling had to disappear, sooner or later. It was always like that – he would do what he had to do and he’d forget about the stress. But the first reaction was always the adrenaline rush – heart pounding, butterflies in the stomach, the mind not as cool as usual… being more nervous and more vulnerable to annoyance-causing triggers.

Well… but at least, Feltsman wasn’t on his own! At hard times like these, the presence of friends was incredibly important. People who’d always take your side, support you, chase your doubts away, tell you that you shouldn’t fear and that what you do is the right thing to do…

‘Yakov, that bet of yours is just mad! Stand down, until you’ve still got a chance!’

At least in theory.

‘Maybe the bet is mad…’ Yakov mumbled, ‘but I’m not going to stand down. After all, the situation is not that hopeless.’

‘But it is!’ Igor moaned. ‘You should’ve simply bought the ice rink from Vronkov!’

‘Paid him and get this off your head!’ Pavlo chimed.

‘Retired!’

‘Made someone you trust the new main coach!’

‘Started spend your money on something else than bribes and injured skaters!’

‘Gone to Canaries and chill out!’

The words mixed with the hum of cards moving on the table. Yakov’s head was moving from one side to another, from Pavlo to Igor, and then to the Carol of Spades landing on the discard pile. Feltsman was trying to focus on the game and simultaneously not to go mad from his friends’, babbling like _enthusiastic ladies_ watching their favourite series. Fuck, so much stupidity surrounded him, that Yakov had no idea what to respond first:

‘I’m not going to retire.’

‘I don’t have anyone whom I trust enough to make them the main coach.’

‘What am I supposed to spend my money on?!’

‘ _I can’t_ chill out and _I hate_ the Canary Islands!’

But, actually… why would he explain all of that to them?! He’d known these dumbbells for over thirty years, after all! If they didn’t know _such fundamental things_ about him, then… then…

Yakov shook his head. _Stop. I shouldn’t think bad of my friends. The last thing I need is trying to convince myself of some bullshit!_

‘I will retire _only_ when I really want it,’ he mumbled.

Under the pretext of not looking into his companions’ eyes, he rearranged his cards. Oho? He managed to get the Dame and the Carol of the same suit. Just a little bit more and he would have a sequence!

 _If somehow I manage to get the blonde Fag, I will have a chance to win that unfair fight!_ He thought, getting a bit of his good mood back.

‘I’m not going to dance for Vronkov,’ he stated, reaching for a card.

‘But YOU’RE ALREADY dancing for him!’ Igor blurted out. ‘You think why did he come up with that bet? He figured it all out to humiliate you even more.’

‘Bollocks,’ Yakov snorted lightly. ‘Well… of course, he’d love to humiliate me, that goes without questioning… but he came up with the bet on the spot. He wasn’t planning it.’

‘How can you know?’ Pavlo asked hesitantly.

‘’Cause I know the wanker better than you do.’ Feltsman rolled his eyes. ‘Maybe he is an arsehole, but he doesn’t like to win by default. Like in nineteen sixty nine. When I got ill and couldn’t start in the Worlds, he wasn’t pleased… he was _pissed off_. He bought our rink because he thought that the finale of the whole fuss about Max made him the winner. And when he noticed the matters are quite different, his pride hurt him and he felt like having a real duel. In fact… I even tricked him a little to do so.’

‘But WHAT FOR?’ The manager looked at him like at a madman. ‘Why couldn’t you just buy the rink?’

‘Because I didn’t want to retire.’

‘But you will retire anyway.’

The card Yakov was going to dispose was hung a few inches over the pile. ‘I’m sorry?’ Feltsman gave his friends a confused look.

 _‘I will retire anyway’?_ He thought, completely baffled. _What the hell is it supposed to mean?!_

Igor and Pavlo had odd expressions. Like they’d been told to perform euthanasia. Or to procure abortion. Or to junk their beloved car! Yakov was very familiar with the last feeling – the most shitty one in the world (right after the divorce with Lilka and losing with Vronkov).

Five cards had to be disposed before the physiotherapist decided to break the silence: ‘You know, Yakov… How do I put it into words…’ He stopped speaking and stared at the table.

‘You can’t possibly think you can really win, can you?’ Igor whispered.

Yakov almost disposed his precious Dime of Hearts in shock. He grabbed a worthless Duck of Spades at the last moment and tossed it on the pile. He couldn’t believe it! For hell’s sake… if only a statement like that had been said by a vicious dirtbag like Vronkov… but said by a long-time friend and the manager of his own Club?! Admittedly, he didn’t say it with envy or anything, but still…! What was he thinking?! And why Pavlo seemed to have agreed with what he said?!

Yakov’s spare hand fell on the table helplessly. ‘You must be fucking joking?’ he spluttered in an overwhelmed voice. ‘The fight hasn’t even begun yet… I have a bloody year to prepare a skater for the duel… and at the very beginning you two just assume I’m going to lose?! What sort of friends are you?!’ They opened their mouths to answer, but he didn’t let them. ‘But fine, let’s say we wouldn’t have been friends…’ he murmured, pressing his fingertips against his forehead, ‘do you really think I’m that bad as a coach?!’

‘NO!’ Pavlo yelled, raising his hand to calm him down. ‘Y-Yakov, come on, don’t take it personally… of course we don’t!’

‘We don’t think you’re a bad coach at all!’ Igor stated, sending his amped up friend an apologetic look. ‘You’re great, you really are!’

‘We’re not sweet talking you. We really think so! It’s just… well… the format of this duel is quite poor itself. Well, come on… a rivalry of _ten year olds_?’

‘It doesn’t matter what kind of a coach you are. It’s just that… you know… the rules of that bet aren’t really advantageous for you.’

‘I’d say they are _very_ advantageous for me,’ Yakov pointed out, tossing a card on the pile angrily. ‘And that’s what kind of coach I am is a _huge_ matter.’

His colleagues tilted their heads simultaneously. They didn’t understand what he meant. And they stopped playing for some reason. Damn, they’re delaying it, the bloody…

Suddenly Feltsman noticed why the hand had been stopped – they simply had _no_ cards on the piles. Sighing, Yakov put his fourteen cards aside, picked up a chaotic bunch of Hearts, Diamonds, Clubs and Spades and stacked all the paper rectangles on the table.

‘It’s going to be a duel of ten-year-olds,’ he murmured, shuffling cards like a professional croupier. ‘Little reeks. Not juniors, not seniors. Snotties. I’ve been working with it since I was still a competitor. I’ve been taking care of novices and juveniles much longer than Vronkov.’

‘That’s true, but…’ Igor started saying.

‘First years of learning are key for a competitor…’ Feltsman didn’t let his friend finish, ‘it’s when a skater is between five and twelve years old when so much depends on the coach. Children are the best material to work with. Yeah, right, I’m complaining about the little bastards every time I can… but I have to admit it’s quite easy to teach them. Kids are more obedient than adults, they do what they’re told without complaining and take each of their coach’s word for the essence of truth. Of course, in every group there would be some bullies like Ivanko, but… do you get what I’m talking about? _It’s because of_ the bet revolving around ten-year-olds that I have a chance of winning. Unlike Vronkov, I know how to work with kids.’

To highlight his words, he slapped the shuffled deck on the table. Pavlo reached for it to split it into halves.

‘Well, right, but you need to have _something_ to work with,’ the manager mumbled, taking a card.

Yakov, who’d just got excited by the fact of receiving his fifty-first point (oh fuck, finally!), lost his enthusiasm at a snap of fingers. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked slowly.

„Have something to work with” – why did that sound oddly familiar to him? It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what.

Or rather – he had an idea what it might’ve been, but he’d rather have been wrong… because if he was right, it wouldn’t have been a good advertisement of Igor’s beliefs.

‘Vronkov is going to go with Ivanko, right?’ the manager asked in a voice that sounded like he’d been speaking while entering a minefield. ‘The younger brother of Max?’

‘I rather think so.’ Feltsman raised his eyebrows. ‘He’d be dumb if he did otherwise.’

‘And you’re going to go with… Lyov Rykov?’

Before answering, the _Champions’ Club_ protector gave him a cold look. So he wasn’t wrong.

‘I intend to,’ he answered with an expression saying _I know what you’re going to say and I really don’t like it._

‘And…’ Pavlo added, ‘I don’t know… don’t you have a feeling the result is already sealed?’

‘So you think Lyov doesn’t stand a chance?’ Yakov tilted his head.

‘And you think he does?’

 _Yes, I do, for fuck’s sake. It’s ME who is his coach and it’s ME who knows what is he capable of,_ he’d have liked to say.

But he’d have sounded like a parent trying to protect his favourite child. Or like a brat trying to stop any further talk. And he didn’t want to sound like that. Igor and Pavlo’s opinion happened to be the one he GAVE a shit about…

These guys were not only people whom he’d been working with for many years. They were his friends, most importantly! They’d always been together. First as competitors, then as the lawful heirs of their predecessors: Yakov inheriting the mantel of the coach Novak, Igor as the manager’s apprentice, Pavlo as the physiotherapist’s Padawan. The Three Musketeers! Now and forever!

Yakov didn’t intend to go to war with Vronkov without his guards. The first and the most important step before taking the effort should be convincing his best friends that he was right… that he could win.

‘I think the young Rykov has _a pretty good chance_ ,’ he started to explain. ‘First, he can jump the same jumps as Ivanko…’

‘Except for the double Axel,’ Igor interrupted him.

Feltsman clenched his teeth. ‘Lyov can jump the double Axel.’

‘That’s the key word here. „He can jump”,’ Pavlo highlighted, ‘but he can’t land it.’

‘He’s going to start landing it,’ Yakov hissed. ‘He needs two months to learn that. And I have a whole year before the bet settles.’

‘I’d like to remind you that young Levin is not going to stand in one place during this year,’ the physiotherapist pointed out. ‘Vronkov is definitely going to teach him the double Lutz.’

Igor nodded, blowing raspberries. ‘Besides that, I heard a rumour that since he started skating at _Spartan_ , the kid started to spring triple toes,’ he claimed, rubbing his chin.

‘Since he started skating at _Spartan_!’ Yakov snorted, ‘my arse! He’d been jumping them here as well… his brother taught him that without my chime.’

‘WHAT?’ Pavlo bawled his eyes out.

‘And you’re telling us Lyov and Ivan jump the same jumps?’ Igor mustered in an overwhelmed voice. ‘We knew about the Axel… and now it turns out that Levin’s got the advantage in the triple toe loop as well?!’

‘That _advantage_ is a result of him skipping extra classes in order to practise with his _hell a responsible_ brother,’ Feltsman pointed out. ‘When I caught them in the act, it turned out they were practising difficult elements _without even a fucking warm-up_. But never mind Maxik and his so-called brotherly love… skipping ballet classes got its revenge on Ivanko. He’s not flexible and he’s as graceful as a snow blower. Whereas Lyov who’s always had a great ear and skated well to the music _didn’t skip dance classes_ , and therefore he brushed up his inborn skills _even more_. The components are something that’s _horribly_ difficult to catch up with… much more difficult than with jumps. Lyov has a chance of winning because except for the jumps he has the ability to show himself in an aesthetic way… and, of course, motivation.’

‘By motivation you mean… revenge for the incident with beating up?’ Pavlo asked hesitantly.

‘Exactly.’

At the very thought of the said incident, Yakov felt like grabbing the younger of Levins, put him across his knee and give him a decent spank. He’d probably have done so in commie times. What a pity the times have changed…

‘Ivanko’s provocation turned Lyov’s world on its head,’ Feltsman said in a sad voice. ‘Rykov is a good child… very calm and polite… but I know that deep inside he’d like to kick his old friend. And it that „revenge” was to happen on ice… on normal, _fair_ terms… then I don’t see any problems with that. I know what it means to have a rival. I’m not going to rip somebody off their opportunity to settle the score.’

Ha! That should’ve got these dumbbells thinking! After hearing that many convincing arguments that shivering coward Igor and that fragile masseur Pavlo should’ve finally chilled out and stop trying to get their friend to stand down!

Maybe the oncoming duel brought a little bit of risk with it (well, fine: a little more than „a little”!), but it brought a lot of excitement as well. Because… heck, all you have to do is to think about it in this way:

Two coaches – each others’ arch rivals.

Two boys – their students. Each others’ rivals as well.

Vronkov and Ivanko… Yakov and Lyov!

The Emperor and Darth Vader… Obi Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker!

 _Okay, I messed up this comparison a bit,_ Feltsman thought, scratching his head. _I’d rather have been Vader, after all… eh, nevermind!_

What he meant was that such opportunities come round only once in a life! God didn’t happen too often to show the creativity of George Lucas and cause a situation where two young adepts would represent their masters in a duel to dea… erm… for all or nothing!

And if Yakov was to completely and irreversibly beat Vronkov… or be completely and irreversibly _beaten_ by Vronkov, he wanted it to happen in _circumstances exactly like these_. On a huge arena, surrounded by a wild crowd roar! Between two evils, it was much better to be a skater-gladiator and take the risk than sign a few papers and let for being exiled from the skating world.

 _Do you agree, Anakin?_ Feltsman glanced at the „Star Wars” poster with a corner of an eye.

Before he had time to think of Vader’s response, he heard Igor saying: ‘It’s nice you want to help that kid get his revenge and everything…’ the manager melded three cards more with dried-up expression, ‘but it’s a pity you do it at your expense. And at or rink’s expense.’

Yakov’s fist banged on the table. ‘Why are you SO SURE I’m going to lose?’

‘Because Lyov has no chance of winning,’ they answered at the same time.

‘For fuck’s sake… I’ve just proven that kid has A BUNCH of assets! He’s better than that little bastard Levin in so many ways! Why are you so certain he will lose?!’

‘Because he’s too similar to…’

Pavlo bit his tongue at the last moment. But his statement had been finished – by the eyer glazing from under the fringe. These eyes told Feltsman _everything_.

‘He’s too similar to me?’ Yakov finished in an ice-cold whisper.

That’s the moment when someone should’ve said something like: „Nooo, come on! That’s not what I’ve meant.’

But nobody said that. And Pavlo’s apologetic look spoke for itself – that idiot really _wanted_ to say that. And he did, in some way. And Igor thought the same – his face delivered the same message as the physiotherapist’s mug: „Sorry, mate.”

Yakov didn’t feel like being forgiving: ‘Wow, fuck, really…’ he snapped, imagining kicking his friends’ nuts, ‘how _fucking lovely_ was that, my arse! I’m sorry I didn’t know that skating in a similar way that I do is a _guarantee of losing_!’

‘Maybe not a guarantee, but…’ Pavlo chuckled nervously.

‘Yakov, we really don’t want to be mean.’ Igor looked at Feltsman in a pleading way. ‘But simply… you know… you’ve bet on such a high stake that we _have_ to be honest with you. _You_ should be honest with yourself. So answer, but honestly… when it comes to skating, how many times did you win with Vronkov?’

Yakov’s eyes narrowed. The Olympic Champion had never felt that much offended! He opened his mouth to list all the times he was the triumphant one while opposing the bald arsehole…

‘Without Tatyana,’ his friends added unexpectedly.

Feltsman’s voice froze in his throat. _Heck! Without that impulsive witch? Well…_

‘Not a single time,’ he mumbled, turning his eyes away.

‘Exactly.’ Igor sighed deeply. ‘And they’d been saying the same thing about you that you’re saying about Rykov. Skating to the music and all of that… the motivation to surpass the arch rival… the grace and everything…’

‘Honestly? I didn’t have a bit of grace. And my components weren’t exactly that good either.’

The only thing Yakov could do gracefully was punching people’s faces. Or at least Lilia thought so. Once, she called the way her husband cracked down a group of six chavs as a „creative and outstandingly artistic, and even – ah! – even the bruises were placed symmetrically on both sides, and the sound of bones breaking was a true symphony, akin to Mozart’s of Beethoven’s, and after all the fuss the hooligans looked like they’d been taken out of Picasso’s painting, honestly, Yakov, congratulations, you’ve made such a great show that your wife won’t be able to show her face in public for a month; by the way, you sleep on the couch tonight”. Such an amazing woman. Such amazing times.

‘Maybe you weren’t an Ice Swan, but others from our club were,’ Pavlo’s voice broke trough the beautiful memory. ‘Let’s take Mishkin. But it hadn’t helped him in overcoming Vronkov.’

‘It hadn’t helped anyone.’ Igor nodded. ‘Do you know, why? Because Vronkov has always been a talented prick. And he’s surrounding himself with such students. He had a reason to take Max and Ivanko from you.’

‘And he took them, it should be pointed out, only after you’d managed to teach them everything,’ the physiotherapist sang in a melodramatic voice. ‘Well… maybe not everything, but certainly all the most important things. You’ve perfected their edges, you’ve taught them a great landing posture, you’ve got them in shape…’

‘You gave out a finished product to your arch rival, and he’s going to be very happy to sell that product under his own name… taking the credit for all your achievements!’

‘Could you be so nice and stop saying the „product” word?’ Yakov tossed a card on a pile, glancing angrily at the manager. ‘I hate such comparisons! I don’t treat my skaters like they’d been things.’

‘Right, sorry.’ Igor lifted carefully the discarded Black Maria and added it to his sequence. ‘But you get what I’m talking about?’

Feltsman mumbled a swear word. The damn Spade Dame… how could he have not noticed she was a lay-off?! An idiot… he was a bloody, fucking idiot! A player as experienced as he was shouldn’t make such mistakes.

‘Yeah, I get it,’ he mumbled.

‘It’s true that Lyov has some assets… but it stays true that he learns new thing two times slower than Ivanko,’ Pavlo said, rubbing his chin with his thumb. ‘And he’s got weaker motor skills. Do you remember when all the kids from the Club were playing at the curbs? When they had a contest who would stand at one the longest?’

After his words, the physiotherapist melded three Sevens.

‘Lyov fell as one of the firsts.’ Igor blew some raspberries. ‘Ivanek kept standing till the end. That’s what an „inborn sense of balance” is.’

That’s how Yakov was on the verge of losing twice. His best friends were beating him at the topic of Lyov and apparently they were going to beat him at rummy! They both had one card left – they only needed to get a layoff and it would be finished!

 _To think I made it easier for them myself, discarding the Spade Cunt!_ Feltsman thought in anger.

He regretted discarding that card. He regretted losing almost all his arguments. He regretted even starting the talk on the topic of the bet. Another moment and he would regret betting!

But it wasn’t the time. Not that day! He hadn’t reached the point when he would come to a conclusion that talking to Vronkov was a mistake and shout „what the hell have I done”. If a situation like that was ever to happen, Yakov would lock himself at home, dig up in one of his old suitcases some little figurines of Father Christmas (bought from the same Belarusian he got the ironing board from) and start smashing the tiny motherfuckers with a hammer. He hoped it would never happen (as it meant a hell of horrible mess!).

It wasn’t that bad yet. So far, Yakov could only agree that the probability of losing was _a little bit_ higher than he was assuming. But he still wasn’t getting hysterical about it.

‘I’m not going to write anybody off only because he fell from a curb fast,’ he mumbled in a voice of an injured soldier. ‘Besides… well, I don’t have to make up my mind straight away. The camp is starting soon. There will be plenty of talented kids there. Even if I don’t end up picking Lyov, then… hey, what’s up with your faces?’

For heaven’s sake! Both the manager and the physiotherapists's face expressions said "I'm performing both euthanasia and abortion while tossing my favourite car away".

'You know, speaking of the camp...' Igor hid himself behind the cards.

Like he'd been trying to make a shield of these tiny rectangles. As if he'd been thinking that would protect him from his temperamental friend's anger. Pfff! A gullible fellow...

 _Fuck, now what?_ Feltsman thought in anger. _What the hell I still don't know about? WHAT ELSE?!_

It was the third time... the third fucking time when he was the last one to find out about things! First, he didn't know the ice rink had been sold... second, he didn't know Vronkov was the one who'd bought it... and now he didn't know... well, about the third thing.  That was bloody humiliating! Yakov Feltsman, the best informed man in Russia, had something he did not know about. He hated not knowing about anythingg. Fuck, he felt like a lady who'd forgotten she had a period!

'Well, say that finally!' he barked at the manager.

'The sport complex we've always been using has been booked by someone else.'

'WHAT?!'

A few cards at the top of the pile moved a bit under the influence of Yakov's roar.

 _No, fuck, you've got to be joking!_ Feltsman wringed his hands in despair. _If you tell me Vronkov's the one who's booked it..._

'It's all because of that interview with Max,' Igor explained. 'You know... the one that was on TV recently. Since then someone's started to spread a rumour that you’re retiring and you've resigned from holding the camp this year... and the owner of the complex has also heard it. When he was offered a deal from a smaller skating school, he was paid a part of the proce in advance and he dropped our reservation and...'

'BUT THAT'S A FUCKING SCANDAL! What an idiot is he to do such things after hearing some dumb rumours?!'

 _Skating school?_ Yakov thought, breathing sharply in anger. _Some anonymous SKATING SCHOOL?! Fuck, that's EVEN MORE humiliating than Vronkov booking the bloody complex himself. So THAT'S what people think of me now? Thanks, Maxik... thank you hell a lot!_

'Erm, excuse me?' A tall guy dressed in a pink apron and a black cap approached their table. 'You're shouting a bit too loud and other customers...'

'Fuck off!' the enraged coach splurted out without a second thought.

'Oh, mister Feltsman! I’m sorry, I haven't recognised you. I'll fuck off right away.'

That was when Yakov noticed Darth Vader's mask on the guy's t-shirt. 'Oh, that's you, Vanya,' he said to the pub's owner. 'Sorry, I haven't recognised you either.  I didn't know you're waitering tonight. If I'd noticed that's you I wouldn't have been so rude.'

'But that's fine. Your tips are so high I'll be very happy to fuck off.'

Feltsman made a note to himself to leave a triple tip for Vanyushka tonight. He deserved for letting a certain temperamental man to yell in his pub for five years. Yell and throw objects. He had to compensate for all those customers who were running away so that they wouldn't get hit with an ashtray. Or with a shot glass. Or a cucumber. Or a shoe. Or a sock...

'Going back to the topic...' Yakov spoke up, rubbing his forehead, 'finding another ice rink will be bloody difficult. And we won’t be able to use the _Champion_ ’s, 'cause the men's showers will still be in renovation. Besides, for the time of the camp I'd like to leave the rink for the girls... they'll probably laze around anyway, but whatever. They should get on the ice at least once a day, that's important. Igor, have you checked other rinks in Petersburg?'

'Everything's already been booked.'

‘Well, nothing to be shocked about, right? That’s how the things are if you decide to find someplace for June in bloody May. Because the prick you've always been leasing the rink from had to hear a fucking rumour and cancel your reservation made in a half-a-year advance! But what else have we left to do? Eh, we have no choice... we've got to find a place outside of Petersburg.’

He waited for his friends to put some ideas forward. After all, they knew about the problem with the complex longer than he did. They had to start thinking of a plan B. Especially Igor had to. After all, all the organisation matters were his domain... he certainly had to be prepared for every circumstance!

And he was right - the manager spoke up. 'I've got a list of several ice rinks in a radius of sixty miles. We might check them, but...' and he went silent. Yakov wasn't prepared for that - for the "but".

'But what?' he mumbled.

He had a bad feeling about that. A very baaad feeling.

'Yakov, don't you think that we should... erm... give the camp up?'

'Give up?' Yakov repeated in a cold voice. 'Do you want me to tell fifty brats that have been invited something like "I'm sorry, but the party has been called off because we fucked up"?'

They heard Vanya's voice from behind the counter: 'That's genius! I have to note that down! We'll hang it at the pub's door when we don't have the vodka delivery on time!'

'Add "even though we promised" at the end," Feltsman barked.

'You're right! I will add it.'

'There's nothing worse than un unkept word,' Misha Novak's heir told his friends. 'Promising something and then taking the promise back is something even Vronkov wouldn't do.'

'Exactly.' Igor raised his finger in triumph. 'Vronkov won't step back. And you should! I mean... it would be good for you to step back from the bet when you still can do it.'

'Because when you organise the camp the deal will be done... won't it?' Pavlo rubbed the nape of his neck while swallowing a gulp. 'If you do it, you will show everyone that you don't intend to retire.'

'FOR FUCK'S SAKE, why are you so fixed on my bloody retirement?!' Yakov yelled so that all people in the pub could hear him. 'Since we've start playing, I hear the word "retirement, retired, retire" all the time. Why are you insisting on me to do so? You have to know that's not what I want to do yet. And even if I did... I wouldn't think of it, as you don't get prepared for picking your toys up. I can't leave you for your own, can I?'

Suddenly, the table got surrounded by very bad vibes. Pavlo and Igor didn't say a word. Their eyes, filled with guilt, were staring at their cards. The "Star Wars" soundtrack coming out of the speakers went silent, making the lack of any response even more difficult to handle. And suddenly, everything became clear.

'Guys, what are you... you can't be...?'

People who barely knew Yakov Feltsman assumed that whenever the situation got bad, he would react with a yell. But the reality was very different. It was true that that temperamental man loved swearing and hardly ever had a day without a lion-like roar... but even he had his limits. Everyone _had_ their limits. The moment when your fate drops _one bomb too much_ on you and you simply have _no idea what to do_.

For Yakov Feltsman,  the bomb meant the realisation of the mistake in his thinking: _It wouldn't be me leaving them for their own. It's THEM trying to tell me that..._

'My daughter wants me to move to Switzerland,' Pavlo spoke up, looking at Feltsman sadly. 'There's a home for sale in her town.'

'I've been thinking about moving to Irkutsk.' Igor rubbed the nape of his neck while breathing out a sigh. 'My wife has been insisting for years that she wants to be closer to her grandchildren. And my son is going to have his second child this autumn...'

'You want to retire?' Yakov spluttered in disbelief. ' _Both?_ '

'Maybe not necessarily retire,’ the manager said carefully, 'Anya told Pavlo that he could have a surgery at home. It's very popular in Switzerland. And about me... hmm... I'd like to help my son in running his business. Borya has loads of great ideas, but he's too messy. He's probably going to complain that his old father is meddling in his affairs… but I’m sure that deep in his heart he wants me to give him some advice. And I want to take the kids ice skating. It’s such a shame my grandchildren can’t skate! It’s high time I tought them how to do it. I’m going to take them to Baikal.’

_Switzerland? Irkutsk? Baikal?!_

What is that even supposed to mean? And why the most important question was still unanswered: ‘Why are you telling me you want to leave all of the sudden?’ Feltsman whispered. ‘Why now?’

‘Yakov, you have to know these aren’t _sudden_ decisions.’ Igor sounded like he’d been speaking to a little child. ‘I mean… it’s true we’ve never _talked_ about it, but you know that… really… you couldn’t have been thinking we’d work for the _Champions’ Club_ until our days are over?’

That’s the problem – that Yakov _did think so, indeed_.

‘And what about our promise?’ he stuttered, moving his eyes from one man to another. ‘What about the famous „all for one, one for all”? What about the „Three Musketeers”?’

‘We’ve been them for almost thirty years.’ Pavlo smiled sadly. ‘But, you know… everything has its end. Don’t get me wrong, Yakov, the _Champion_ means family to us, but… we have to think of our „regular” families as well.’

‘But being the part of the _Champions’ Club_ is not standing in the way of having regular family,’ Yakov said.

‘Are you sure?’ Igor raised his eyebrow. ‘You got divorced with Lilka because of your workaholism…’

‘ _Among of other things_!’ Feltsman hissed. ‘ _You know perfectly_ it wasn’t only about that! How could you, after all that happened over last couple of years, say that…’

‘All right, all right, I’m sorry!’ The manager raised his hand to calm him down. ‘I didn’t want to put salt on the wounds of yours. Or rather: on the wounds of _both_ of you. I only wanted to say that you can’t live for job itself. And the job of a coach is especially ungrateful… That Club is squeezing the life out of you, Yakov. Can’t you see how it does? You’re at the beck and call of your girls, and they’re not giving anything in return. You support injured morons, and they’re not giving anything in return. You help the kids’ parents raise their sassy sprouts, and they’re not giving anything in return.’

‘You’ve always been like that, ever since you were a kid,’ the physiotherapist added. ‘You’ve been always giving way to others. Even when you have a day free, instead of taking some rest like a normal person would, you sit and worry if one of your students isn’t trying to break their neck. Tell me… aren’t you full of that?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Yakov barked. ‘It’s something I was born to do. I’ve been looking for it for my whole life. It’s something I love and something I’m good at. And you’re wrong saying that I’m not getting anything in return. What I get is…’ his voice faded for a moment, ‘the feeling that someone needs me.’

When he was saying that, he heard Max Levin’s voice in his mind. A haughty, venomous voice: _After the Final… let’s end this. I don’t need you anymore. After the Grand Prix Final I’m going to announce that my injury has been healed… and that I’m not working with you anymore._

Igor and Pavlo remembered the scene as well. He could see that on their faces.

‘That feeling is an illusion, Yakov,’ the manager said. ‘You can’t rely all your happiness on something that’s an _illusion_. You are not Max Levin’s father. As well as you’re not and will not be the father of any of your students. That’s painful, I know… but it’s true. I’m sorry you haven’t got your own children, because I can feel you’d really want to have, but on the other hand… you’ve made your choices. You’ve made choices together with Lilia. You agreed you didn’t want to have children, and now… well, now it’s too late for that. Devoting your life to young skaters won’t compensate for that. Let’s face it: if someone is good, they are going to be good even without a good coach. And if someone is a loser, unfortunately, they’re always going to be a loser… That’s why the feeling that someone needs you is an illusion. And, by the way…’ Igor leaned forward and laid off a Jack of Hearts to one of his sequences. A blond dude with a dreamy smile whom Yakov had been waiting for for such a long time! ‘…I don’t have any cards left. I win.’

Feltsman’s hands shivered.

Actually, Yakov thought honesty was an amazing virtue. He valued people who could tell the truth straight to one’s face… who weren’t pussying around and would tell the truth right off the bat.

But…

There’s one rule in the code of people-to-people contacts, written in tiny script: there are things that are _not to be told_. They are not! There are some delicate matters _that shouldn’t be spoken about out loud_. Especially when you don’t have the full records… particularly when you don’t have the full _fucking_ records!

_You’ve made your choices. You’ve made choices together with Lilia. You agreed you didn’t want to have children._

Right, they did agree on that matter. But in spite of that agreement… one day, they went shopping. They bought a certain pair of skates and a certain pair of ballet shoes. At the memory of these skates and these ballet shoes, Yakov felt a shooting pain in his chest.

With a loud smack, several thousand rubles were put next to the ashtray. Hearing a chair moving suddenly, all the chatter in the pub went silent for a moment. The gangster hat left the hook and was placed back at its owner’s head. Igor and Pavlo bawled their eyes out.

‘Yakov, where are you going?!’ they asked both.

‘Someplace where someone would believe in me,’ Feltsman splurted out, putting his coat on. ‘I will overcome that bearded motherfucker with or without you! And when I win, I will keep on teaching the „worthless” brats, so you’d better start looking for some people that could replace you. The Club can’t go on without a manager and a physiotherapist.’

‘WHAT?!’ Igor raised up. ‘Wait… hold on for a while! We were supposed to talk! Your bet…’

‘You think I’m going to lose anyway, so there’s no point in talking. I’m always telling my skaters to stay away from negative people. So I’m going to make use of my own advice and walk away.’

‘We’re not negative!’ Pavlo stood up as well. ‘We only want you to get your common sense back… for God’s sake, just give up on Vronkov and his childish tricks!’

‘We did all that was possible for that Club!’ the manager said in a begging voice. ‘Just buy the rink from the bloody baldman and we’re going to retire together… just as we’ve always been planning! Why the hell are you so stubborn?!’

‘BECAUSE I CARE, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’ Yakov yelled with one hand on the handle. ‘You have your families. I understand that fucking perfectly. I’m not going to prevent you from moving to Switzerland, Irkutsk, or even to fucking Greenland… I’m not going to prevent you from sticking to you wives and children. Well, I would’ve never thought you would do so at the moment when I need you the most, but well, fuck it, I’m a big boy, I’ll be fine… I’m not going to prevent you from sticking to your families. And for an exchange, you should fuck off and stop criticising me for fighting for _my family_! Because, for your information, the _Champions’ Club_ is the only family I’ve got at the moment. Bye!’

Slamming the door, he went out into a wild snow storm. But it wasn’t the freezing cold outside that hit him. It was the cold he felt inside which was the harshest.

Breaking through the snowdrift, Yakov remembered of an Andersen’s stories – „The Snow Queen”. It was about that kid, Kai, who was hit with a piece of a mirrorglass. The eyesore made him see the worst aspects of all things. He became completely immune to any beauty. He became a bloody pessimist. Nay, the true King of Pessimists!

Yakov’s fingers grabbed the edge of the hat and covered his face with it a little to protect his eyes from the snowflakes’ pinching.

 _Who needs a dumb mirror?_ Feltsman thought bleakly. _There are so many wonderful things in the world that can change a person into a sick pessimist! Parents’ death, brothers’ death, divorces, unloyal students, sneaky rivals… best friends leaving you alone in need…_

Eh, not only Petersburg was looking forward to when spring would begin. The winter in Yakov’s heart was at its best as well. The first snow had fallen at the day of signing the divorce papers. Since then, it was gradually turning only to worse – colder and colder, darker and darker… really, all that was left was going to the bathroom and slit wrists with dental floss!

The fifty-year-old man tucked himself with the coat. _I want to go home and snug under the duvet!_ he thought, looking down at the pavement. _I want to talk to someone who believes in me!_

xXx

 

‘The coach has gone mad!’

‘Erm… maybe it’s an April Fools’ joke?’

‘It’s May, you idiot!’

‘Ooh, right. So the coach has gone mad.’

Yakov felt a vain at his forehead bulging. He wasn’t expecting such reaction. He would’ve never thought that his four students – his brilliant, lovely, annoying girls – would stand by the boards, as stiff as the said boards, staring at him like at a madman who escaped from an asylum.

But that’s how it was. The eyes of the skaters sweating after the finished practice were huge and bawled, like the eyes of plastic dolls. Their mouths, usually moving as if they’d been possessed, had been shut. If they’d opened, then only to call (once again) their coach a madman.

‘I assume you don’t want me to coach you anymore?’ Yakov raised his eyebrow. ‘I should retire, right? I should give up, even though I’ve promised Sonya and Verechka I’m going to prepare them for the Olympics? Even though I promised _all of you_ I’m going to take care of you until you decide you don’t want to be skating anymore? I should simply just stop being a coach?’

‘Of course not!’ Masha shouted passionately.

‘You _can’t_ give up!’ Sonya stated with fire in her eyes.

‘ _We need you_ , coach!’ Lenka chimed.

Vera only swallowed a gulp in her throat and nodded with a strange, thoughtful facial expresion.

Feltsman breathed out slowly. He didn’t even realise he’d been holding his breath up to then.

Thanks God! His good, loyal, little girls… his darling witches with painted-on faces! Maybe they did think he was a madman, but at least they accepted his decision. Jesus, how great that at the very least he had some support from them! Fuck, they couldn’t have any idea how much it meant to him!

‘Forget about this dump and find another venue to let!’ Masha said, nodding.

Yakov, who’d been getting ready to say something like „I’m buying you a round, girls!” freezed with his mouth wide open.

_What?!_

‘Or maybe you should buy an ice rink,’ Sonya suggested. ‘Or build.’

‘Building a rink would take a while,’ Lenka said with a sigh. ‘It would be better to rent something for now. The Games are around the corner… you and Verechka can’t let yourselves for any breaks. We can practise at a rental venue. And in the meantime, mister Antonov would take care of finding a permanent place.’

‘That’s a good plan,’ Masha agreed. ‘I hope the new venue will have prettier showers.’

‘And bigger lockers,’ Sonya said with a dreamy expression. ‘My poor dresses always get creased when I took them out of my locker.’

‘Ah! And it would be nice if there were some…’

‘SHUT YOUR MOUTHS, RIGHT NOW!’

Three out of four girls stopped their gibberish and looked at the coach cautiously. The toepicks of Yakov’s left blade were hitting on the ice surface angrily. His hands, clenched into fists, were shivering, and his green eyes glared from under his fringe furiously. Realising that he must’ve looked like a bull getting ready to charge, Feltsman made himself keep calm.

‘Do you want me to leave the _Champions’ Club_? So I should simply give up and let my arch rival level the place?’

‘Well…’ Masha said carefully, ‘not that you had much of a choice.’

‘If that bastard Vronkov won’t sell you the rink…’ Lenka shook her head.

‘And what about the bet?’ Yakov asked.

‘That bet is a huge misunderstanding.’ Sonya shivered. ‘We know you like gambling, coach, but that went a little too far. It wouldn’t be a competition as much as it would be simply a roulette.’

‘Rou… let… te?’ Feltsman stammered each one syllable, piercing the girl with his eyes.

‘Of course! A rivalry of ten-year-olds is a roulette. Kids hadn’t been skating for that long and they lack experience. Anything could happen at a competition like that. Someone could fall down, someone could lose his nerves…’

‘Ah.’ The fifty-year-old tilted his head. ‘And it _doesn’t happen_ at senior competitions?’

‘Well, it does, but…’

‘You insult me and my work by calling that duel „a roulette”, Sonya! It’s like you’d have said that the coach has exactly the same role as any spectator. What the fuck is it even supposed to mean?! „A roulette”! Pff! Well, fuck, of course! Let’s just assume that God is picking the winner! Right, fuck, brilliant! Even Verechka’s silver medal was God’s doing… right, Vera! Why the hell don’t you say anything? Do you agree with your _bloody_ sensible friends? Do you also think I’m out of my fucking mind and I have no chance of winning that bet?’

All eyes turned towards Sokolova, who was standing on the side. The nineteen-year-old kept looking away while she was pressing a bottle of water against her chest. Her shivering fingers kept closing the bottle and twisting it off – as if the Vice World Champion tried to calm down in that way.

 _If I think about it now… she looks more nervous than usual,_ Yakov realised.

When he told the girls about the bet, they all started to freak out, but Verechka… Verechka looked as if she would faint. Feltsman hadn’t paid attention to it before, busy with taking care of the rest three, but when he did, he started to get a bit suspicious.

What the heck could her problem be? Was she so concerned they could lose the rink? Was she worried about the coach, or what? It would be very nice of her, of course, but on the other hand… well, something wasn’t quite right!

‘Verechka, look at me!’ Yakov ordered, keeping his eyes on the girl.

She did what she was told to hesitantly. She was looking at her tutor with eyes of a child caught in the act.

‘I-I think… I think you should stand down,’ she stammered, wrestling the poor bottle’s cap.

Her friends nodded in approval.

‘And why is that?’ Feltsman wouldn’t take his eyes off Sokolova even for a moment. ‘Despite the fact it’s a fucking risky deal.’

Veronika hesitated. ‘Y-you… love this ice rink, don’t you, coach?’ she asked, turning her eyes away again. ‘I-if you could, you would’ve bought it… r-right?’

_What the hell is her aim?_

‘Indeed. I love this ice rink. If only I could’ve bought it, I would not regret a single ruble.’

The Vice World Champion breathed in. ‘Then you should buy it!’ she exhaled in a painful voice. ‘Y-you shouldn’t pay regards to my opinion… OUR OPINION! I-I meant you shouldn’t pay any regards to us!’

And then, even the other girls looked confused. Sonya approached Sokolova at once. ‘Verechka, what do you…?’ she stammered, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘You want to go to the Games without the coach, without our _Papa_? Why in Earth…’

‘I’d really want to go to the Games,’ Vera whispered.

 _„I’d really want to”?_ Yakov wondered. _You’ve already qualified! So why do you suggest something else in what you say? Damn, something’s fishy here._

He skated forward and he stopped one yard in front of the girl. The Vice World Champion reacted with a nervous hop. It confused Feltsman even more – he got used to novices, juniors and adults from the semi-recreational group starting to shake in their boots. Everyone feared him. But not the girls. He’d basically raised each one of these skaters – every single one! These girls spent too much time with him to be afraid – they went through too many competitions together, fell asleep at his lap in the plane far too often, held his hand when they got their ankles set for too many times.

They knew he wouldn’t have hurt them. They knew he wouldn’t have done any harm to them. So why…

‘Verechka… is there something I don’t know?’ Yakov asked slowly. ‘Is everything allright? Are you worried about something?’

‘No! I… I just have a lot on my mind recently.’ She answered too quickly. And she still wouldn’t look into his eyes. ‘But that’s fine,’ she whispered. ‘I just think you should think about yourlself. After all, becoming the rink’s owner was you life-long dream! If we’d forced you to get into some horrible deal because of us… or putting the well-deserved retirement off… it would be simply unfair! You shouldn’t put risk on yourself or get into an uncomfortable situation only because Sonya… and me… are goint to the Games. Don’t you think, Sonya?’

Giving an undefined hum, Sonya leaned her back and forearms against the board. She’d been standing like that for a while, keeping her eyes at the ceiling, hitting the ice with the blade’s edge rhythmically.

‘To be honest…’ she spoke up after a moment, ‘to be honest, you’re actually quite right. We’ve always been taking advantage of you, coach.’

‘Yikes.’ Lenka started to move her hands over the long, blond ponytail, giggling nervously. ‘We’re so egotistical.’

‘Actually we’ve never even asked you if you want to keep taking care of us,’ Masha noticed. ‘We’ve been acting like you’d been a cart horse, and we’ve never even wondered if you’d like to retire.’

Yakov rolled his eyes. ‘I am your cart horse willingly,’ he mumbled, ‘and I’m not going for a bloody retirement! Maybe I am a cold masochist…’ he hesitated, and then he finished in a soft voice: ‘but I’m pleased to be your coach.’

He instantly started to regret admitting that, as Sonya and Lenka shrieked in joy. ‘Wow, it was sooo sweet!’ The girl with a ponytail grabbed her cheeks.

‘You’ve become so sentimental, coach,’ Masha giggled. ‘Maybe it’s because of the divorce?’

‘DON’T SPEAK ANOTHER WORD OF THE DIVORCE!’ Feltsman yelled so that he could be heart in the whole venue.

‘Okay.’ Berezina pretended lacing her mouth up and throwing a key away. ‘Not a single word about the divorce!’

‘Ah, how good is it to know officially that you really like us after all,’ Sonya chirruped. ‘I was starting to think you just seek for an occasion to give us out to an asylum!’

‘What sort of a fucking asylum?’ Yakov slurred. ‘An Asylum for Special Needs Skaters?!’

‘What a great name.’ Masha smacked her lips in recognition.

‘We can call the new rink like that,’ Sonya agreed. ‘We’re going to make a huge sign. If you love us so much and don’t intend to give us out anywhere, we have to do our best to make the new place an example of oryginality and class!’

‘You don’t have to be so worried about our old man, Verechka!’ Lenka embraced the Vice World Champion enthusiastically. ‘The coach is a big boy! He’s going to be fine, even with losing the _Champions’ Club_ … it goes without saying his students are more important to him than some old, communistic building!’

For an umpteenth time that day, Yakov’s brow started to tremble. ‘Are you _fucking_ deaf?!’ Feltsman roared, starting to hit the ice with his skate. ‘Haven’t you heard what I was saying?! I’ve agreed to the bet with Vronkov because I don’t want to _choose_ between the students and the ice rink! I want _both_!’

‘Stop acting like a child, coach.’ Masha waved her hand carelessly. ‘You can’t have everything.’

‘For fuck’s sake, just wait till I…’

‘I can’t believe you’re so stubborn about that dumb bet.’ Elena gived her tutor a punishing look, keeping her hand on her hip. ‘You can’t make your whole life dependent on your shenanigans with Vronkov.’

‘I’m not making anything fucking dependant…’

‘If only you _had a chance of winning_ ,’ Sonya stated, shaking her head. ‘But meddling into something when you know you’re going to _lose_? It’s plain stupidity!’

‘Doziness!’ Lenka added.

‘Ma-so-chism,’ Masha sang.

‘A hardcore way of letting off the steam of the divorce!’

‘It’s just as dumb as two blokes arguing on whose penis is larger!’

‘You can’t let the Pants General to decide about everything… you have to be beyond that!’

‘But don’t try to get yourself a pair of tits! You sometimes act like you’d been brest-feeding all these brats!’

‘Lyovochka is a cute boy, but you can’t get yourself into a suicidal bet only to give him an opportunity for a revenge.’

‘Besides… he’s going to lose for sure and he will have a trauma.’

‘After all, he will come back to you, crying.’

‘And what do you need this for?’

‘What for?’

‘You may be unbeatable at rummy, bridge, hearts, mau mau, thousand and slapjack… but I doubt you’ll win that game.’

‘If you were to win that bet, you’d have to… erm… well… for example…’

‘Write a letter to Father Christmas to give you as a Christmas present a little genius who would break world records and win the Grand Prix five times in a row!’

‘Exactly! Well, but for the world record, they’d have to change the judging system.’

‘Oh, right, it’s impossible for now…’

‘…ough.’

The three girls stopped babbling and looked at their tutor. Yakov stood like a statue, with hands hanging loose by his sides. His fringe covered his eyes completely. If they’d been in a comic, there would’ve been a gloomy, red glow behind him.

‘Enough,’ they heard a cold whisper from the man’s mouth.

‘Oh, God,’ Masha shrieked. ‘The B.B. is coming.’

‘B.B.?’ Sonya asked. ‘What’s a B.B.?’

‘The Bomb Blast,’ Elena explained, biting her nails. ‘Or the Big Bang.’

‘You and Verechka are too young to remember, Sonechka…’ Masha swallowed a gulp. ‘The coach got a B.B. only once! Me and Lenka were five years old at that time…’

In the enraged man’s mind, a little spark running down the string was getting closer and closer to the black bomb. Or at least the three guilty girls imagined it so.

Yakov felt like he’d been a nuclear bomb. But he hadn’t started to feel so immediately…

When he was compared to a kid making his life dependent on his bets with Vronkov and said to be trying to „let off the steam of the divorce in a hardcore way” – he was just simply a pissed off himself. A tiny, pissed off bomb.

When they moved the topic of dicks and tits, the bomb turned into a granade inflamed with wrath.

When the girls repeated the manager’s and the physiotherapist’s words claiming that Lyov had no chance of winning, Yakov started to resemble a bomber moving across the sky, ready to shower the neighbourhood with missiles filled with ire.

Yes, for fuck’s sake! It all was still fucking acceptable! He could’ve lived it through… after all, a human is not a fucking animal! How Yoda would’ve put it – _a person himself control must_!

But that _letter to Father Christmas_ … to the motherfucking Father Christmas! Nooo, that was it! An enraged nuclear bomb… An enraged Death Star… A Rageageddon!

The girls covered their ears. Not that it would help them…

‘YOU MOTHERFUCKING, UNLOYAL WHORES, I’VE BEEN TYING YOUR SKATES MYSELF, I’VE BEEN BRAIDING YOUR HAIR AND I’VE WIPED YOUR FUCKING NOSES MORE TIMES THAN YOUR OWN FUCKING MOTHERS DID! IT’S FUCKING SCANDALOUS THAT I CANNOT RECEIVE ANY FUCKING SUPPORT IN MY OWN FUCKING HOME – RIGHT, THIS FUCKING RINK IS MY HOME! AND AFTER ALL YOUR FUCKING UNREALISTIC PLANS, YOUR TRIPLE AXELS, YOUR BIELLMAN SPINS AND OTHER FUCKING ELEMENTS NOBODY ELSE BELIEVED YOU WOULD FUCKING MANAGE TO DO WHICH I FUCKING BELIEVED YOU WOULD, LIKE MARY MAGDALENE BELIEVED IN THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS, NOW YOU DON’T WANT TO BELIEVE THAT I CAN…’

‘Oh snap, he’s gone wild,’ Lenka whispered to Sonya in between his screams. ‘I think he’s beaten his own record.’

‘Well… last time he had his B.B. he called us „Bloody Calculating Snort-Noses” at the very best. And I think he was yelling he’d been changing our nappies.’

The Rageageddon lasted for at least five minutes! If someone had thought of looking through the window, it would’ve turned out the yells could be heard even outside and they gained the attention of the passers-by. A few women with prams were interrupted in their idyllic strolls – when hearing the noice coming from the ice rink, the babies covered with layers of blankets woke up and – just like Feltsman did – started screaming like they’d been paranoid. Oh, yes… one thing’s for sure – the whole street suffered from one Russian coach losing his temper.

When Yakov shouted everything that was to be shouted (to be sure he repeted each of his charges five times), he turned around and stepped off the ice.

‘For your information, I am OFFENDED!’ he snapped and then hurt his hand when putting his blade guards on too aggressively. ‘Who said only women are allowed to be moody? I am offended and that’s way I won’t be talking to you until the camp for kids and you’re going to practise on your own, and when I come back you’re going to practise the compulsory figures for a WEEK!’ He wondered for a while and then added with a sick satisfaction: ‘And by the way, you’ve got CELLULITE!

A moan of fear spread through the ice rink. The last things Feltsman had seen before he left the hall were deadly pale faces of the panicked girls, who started to grope their own butts, shrieking hysterically.

 _It serves them right!_ He thought, heading to the locker room. _They deserved for what they did, these traitorous hussies! They can get paranoid, start counting each calorie they eat, walk around with scales in their purses and look how everyone except from them devours ice cream! Uh… bloody snorties… how the fuck could they? Eh, and I’ve been raising that band myself… I’ve been taking care of these wenches for that many years and they don’t care to give me a tiny bit of fucking gratitude!_

He remembered Igor and Pavlo’s words:

„The job of a coach is especially ungrateful…”  
„That Club is squeezing the life out of you, Yakov. Can’t you see how it does?”  
„Tell me… aren’t you full of that?”

What if it really was like that? What if he actually was full?

When he was having a shower several minutes later, he heard Vronkov’s voice in his head: „Do you know what is your real problem, Feltsman? It’s how you get _attached_. The coachie Novak got you to think that it’s possible to make a family out of that pile of bricks called the _Champions’ Club_.”

What if only Yakov saw it that way? What if nobody else needed that… _artifical family_? Did he really enjoy the feeling that was _only an illusion_?

Feltsman shook his head. For fuck’s sake… he felt like he’d go mad in a moment! He had to do something… he had to _run away_! Go somewhere… somewhere as far from all of that as possible! Distance himself for a bit… cut himself off from the _Champions’ Club_ , from Petersburg, from people he was close with… from people who didn’t believe in him.

A thought came across his mind.

When he was all clean, dressed up and smelling good, instead of going to his car, he went to the lobby. Hanna, a young secretary, stopped sorting papers and sent him a shy smile.

‘M-mister Feltsman! Good morning. Was your practice with the girls plea…’

Seeing his expression, she thought it would be better not to finish the sentence. Wise girl.

‘As far as I know, Igor left here a list of potential ice rinks for the camp, didn’t he?’ Yakov tried to sound rather calm. He didn’t want an innocent woman to get hit with the remnants of his rage.

‘Igor, you mean… mister Antonov? Y-yes, I think he’s left that list here. Oh, here it is.’

‘Great. Then, I have a task for you. I want you to take a map and mark each one rink from the list. Oh, and by the way, find out if there are any places we could sleep in near these venues… some inns or something like that… I don’t need high standards, today I’m exceptionally not picky. Find anything, but find it quickly. I’m going to my office to take some extra stuff. When I’m back, I want everything to be done.’

Hanna bawled her eyes. ‘O-of course, I’ll take care of that at once, but… I-I don’t want to be nosy, mister Feltsman… but didn’t mister Antonov say he was going to have someone take a look at these rinks?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Yakov mumbled. ‘That’s why you’re going to call him and tell that he doesn’t have to look for anyone. I will take care of that myself.’

He turned around and walked towards the office.

‘And… and if mister Antonov asked why you’ve decided so?’ the secretary called with a phone in her hand. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’

Feltsman stopped. With his eyes fixed on the floor he was trying to think of an answer. He took a deep sigh after a while.

‘Tell him I want to be alone. That I have to think.’

 

xXx

 

The trip outside the city wasn’t as relaxing as Yakov assumed it would be. In fact, it _wasn’t relaxing at all_. Despite that, it was doing its job well.

Feltsman didn’t regret having to drive in absolutely _dicky_ weather with the wipers barely managing to catch up with the snow hitting on the windshield, with tyres slipping on the road covered with ice, and with dickheads violating the right of way, whom were given their driving licence by some idiot, for who knows what reason. He didn’t regret having to deal with a map and finding some village forgotten by the rest of the world, having only shitty markings and politeness of people from petrol stations to his use. He didn’t regret leaving on a trip impulsively, with an empty stomach, but without a tooth brush. He didn’t regret that he was going to sleep in a place with less than three stars for the first time in twenty years, and that after he wakes up the next day he would have three sets of creased clothes to choose from at the very best, which he’d found in the dark depths of his own office.

He really, really didn’t regret that. He didn’t… because of two things he’d rather be pissed off by the road signs, dumb drivers and discomfort than by anything Feltsman had to listen to throughout the whole week. Especially during past fouty eight hours.

‘The spring is just around the corner!’ the bloke from the radio chirrupped. ‘I know, my dear listeners that you doubt in the natural way of things, but don’t worry, as Mother Nature will soon treat you with a reasonable dose of warmth. The thaw is coming tomorrow!’

‘Fuck off,’ Yakov mumbled, ‘you’ve been promising that since the beginning of March.’

Exactly! It was so much easier to get pissed off by that bloke. He didn’t have any face at the very least – he was only an anonymous voice, not something dear to Feltsman. He wasn’t saying all these things because he tried to be mean. His only violation was that he sounded like a complete idiot and believed in the spring that was never to come! Anyway… he was probably paid for being a complete idiot. It wasn’t Yakov to judge him. One had to earn a living in some way.

Speaking of earning money… what would Feltsman do for life in case he’d lost the bet? Well… his stocks were bringing him quite a lot of money anyway, so it wasn’t like he’d _need a job_ , _but_ … wait! He was not to think about that!

 _The road_ , Yakov told himself. _Think about the road. I have to make it to Novovladimirsk! That’s my destination… I have to focus on the aim!_

Right – the aim. Ah, the aim. What was Feltsman’s aim? Not the current one, but the more… general? What was his life aim? Ah, right, becoming the owner of the _Champions’ Club_. Earning the rink!

If Yakov lost the bet, his aim would go and fuck itself.

On the other hand, if he won… his aim would _go and fuck itself as well_.

The fifty-year-old thought about his new conclusion for a while. Such a way of thinking was damn sad, but also… logical. After all, reaching one’s aim meant that the aim is gone. When you reach the place you’ve chosen, you don’t see the road in front of you anymore. And when there’s no road, it means you’re slowly getting to your death.

Each person needs an aim to live. To stay sane.

Did Yakov have any aim aside from earning the rink? Did he have any dreams?

 _When I’ve become a coach and when I married Lilia, I had only three wishes,_ he remembered, smiling bitterly. _I asked God to help me reach my three aims. First, I wanted to buy the rink. Second, I wanted to train an Olympic Champion. Third…_

He saw the skates and ballet shoes in his mind. And one second later he had to hit the brakes, because he saw a sign in front of him. The car skidded.

‘FUCK!’

A long experience of sitting behind the steering wheel prevented Yakov from getting the beloved Honda stuck in a ditch. Eventually both the car and the driver got out of the skid unscratched. The car stopped on the roadside, just a few inches in front of the sign.

 _Great!_ Feltsman snapped in his mind. _I left the city to stop thinking about the problems… and the said problems almost costed me a bumper! Holy fucking shit!_

For a good thing, there was almost no traffic in that hellhole. Yakov grabbed the map with a sigh. Hmm… if he drove past Krasivice a few minutes before, shouldn’t he be…?

The sign that almost kissed his Honda a few moments before was completely covered with snow. Everything said that under the mantle of snow, there was a name of a village. The fifty-year-old crawled out of his car and started to clean the sign, mumbling swear words. After some time it turned out he was right.

„Novovladimirsk.”

 _Well, fine, so I’m here._ Yakov looked around. _But where’s the bloody rink? I can’t see any buildings yet… only fucking trees everywhere! Eh, what a dumpsite. I hope I won’t get lo…_

WHAM!

He couldn’t have finished his thought, as his head hit something hard. The mysterious attacker turned out to be a road sign. Apparently, it had been placed there quite recently. It wasn’t made of metal, but of wood and it was a few yards – fuck, only a few yards – away from the sign indicating the starting point of Novovladimirsk. The inscription on the plaque that attacked Feltsman said: „CAUTION! Slippery road”

‘And you’re saying it NOW?!’

Yakov’s leg gave the sign a vengeful kick. The wooden pole broke into two. The broken sign fell… directly onto the pissed off fifty-year-old! Feltsman got hit on his head once again. And then he slipped and fell straight into a huge snowdrift.

When hy was lying like that, flapping his legs angrily and scaring squirrels off with his loud fuckling, he heard a motor’s growl in the distance. After a moment, a motorcycle appeared from behind the corner. The madman driving the two-wheel damn thing was wearing a leather jacket with studs ( _It’s opened! Isn’t he fucking cold?!_ Yakov thought) and a faggy black helmet with heart pattern. He finished the final straight in no time, and then he stopped by Feltsman in a truly spectacular way. Of course, he had to shower the already pissed off coach with another layer of snow.

‘FUCK!’ Yakov yelled, treating the bastard with a look foreshadowing an inevitable death. ‘Go make noise somewhere else, you fucking organ donor! And don’t you dare to chuckle, ‘cause…’

‘Cause what?’ he heard a question said in a cheerful voice from under the helmet. ‘Are you going to spank me again?’

Yakov’s eyes widened. A black shoe with a thick, black heel fell onto a muddy ground with a quiet smack. When Feltsman looked up he realised that the biker’s silhouette was very slim and certainly _feminine_. Her leather gloves didn’t have fingers, so he could see the nails with pink nail polish. A shirt saying „Sexy Witch” covered her at least D-cup bust.

But Yakov didn’t need such hints, as at the moment when he heard the reference to the spank he knew who he was dealing with. The woman took her helmet off. Whether it was possible or not, Feltsman’s eyes widened even more.

‘W… where the fuck has your hair gone?!’ were the first words he said (or rather: shouted) to Tatyana Lubicheva-MacKenzie. ‘You haven’t got your hair!’

Giggling, she slided her dark glasses off her face.

‘You’re exagerrating.’ She winked at her former skating partner. ‘I still have some. Ooh, Jackie, is this for real… what’s with that sad face? Ah, I know! After all, you’ve been fantasising about cutting my hair off for years! You threatened me so many times that you’d strip me of my beautiful braid. Oh, you poor boy, what are you going to scare me with now?’

The fury on the man’s face faded a bit. Yakov couldn’t help a soft smile.

She was right… oh, she was so, _so_ right! What would he threaten her with now?

Groaning, he raised up to sitting position and gave himself a moment to have a better look at his chosen sister. Eh… as always, the fate was too light on her. She looked young. _Damn young_. Like she’d been at least fifteen years younger than she actually was.

Except for a few wrinkles, Tatyana’s face was still a face of the girl who used to attack Feltsman with her beaded hairband regularly. Her large, blue eyes with thick lashes had the same shine like in the old, communistic days. And the round, golden earrings (which Yakov liked to call „gypsy”) and blond short cut hair emphasised the effect, giving Lubicheva-McKenzie one more spark of youth.

Tatyana hadn’t changed a bit: she was still mischevious, joyful and wild. And slim. And pretty. In a comparison, Yakov ranked poorly.

 _Twenty pounds more and less and less hair on the head,_ he thought in disgust. _Needless to say… I’ll get myself a cane and I could stand for her father!_

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he mumbled, digging the snow out from behing his collar. ‘You were supposed to be in Lithuania! If I remember well, you have a flight to San Francisco today! And where did you get the motorcycle from?! Why are you driving something like that in a weather like this?! Are you trying to kill yourself?!’

‘A bad thing never dies,’ she answered, leaning on the handlebars flippantly. ‘You said that yourself. I’ve stolen the motorcycle from a gangster, and I’m coming back to States on a broomstick. I’m a witch after all, don’t you remember?’

Yakov raised his brow. Tatyana laughed.

‘For real,’ she started, fixing her eyes on her nails, ‘I’ve borrowed the motorbike from one very nice Kazakh man. I arrived to Krasavice with a cab, but the cabby said he wouldn’t take me any further. I thought I wouldn’t find you, but then mister Altin came to the aid. He agreed to borrow his baby to me for my „pretty eyes”.’

‘Have you got a driving licence for that thing?’

She didn’t answer.

‘So you haven’t!’ Feltsman raised his arms to the sky. ‘How the hell did you manage to live to the age of fifty and still not have _a bit_ of common sense! I’ve got no idea what the fuck is wrong with you!’

‘Don’t get hysterical.’ Tatyana rolled her eyes. ‘My hubby taught me to drive.’

‘He taught you, my arse!’ Yakov splurted out, trying to free his foot of the grip of a lump of iced snow. ‘I guess that henpecked man of yours as always didn’t dare to say no when you told him to let you drive!’

‘Steve’s not henpecked. He’s just a cute, lovely teddy bear.’

‘Cute or not cute, if I say he’s henpecked, then he’s henpecked! You haven’t answered my question: what about your flight?’

‘I’ve changed my ticket. I’m flying tonight from Petersburg.’

Feltsman freezed for a while, shook. ‘You changed it and… you’re flying from Petersburg?’ he mumbled, observing the face of his chosen sister. ‘ _Why_?’

‘What do you think?’ She treated him with a gentle smile.

It took Yakov long five seconds to understand. _Oh_ , he thought, feeling his cheeks getting red.

‘How could I simply come back to America when my dear brother challenged his arch rival for a mortal combat?’

Tatyana rested her chin on her hand. Her blue eyes glanced at Yakov with a mix of affection and amusement.

‘And you travelled so many miles… only to speak to me?’ Yakov uttered in disbelief.

He did a quick calculation. She could’ve found out about the bet only from Pavlo or Igor… and they knew since yesterday. A travel by train from Vilnius to Petersburg took over eighteen hours. It would be a bit quicker to hitchhike – ten hours. That’s still hell a lot of time! In other words, if Tatyana could stand next to Yakov now, then she must have… most likely… she most likely left for Petersburg straight after hearing the news. Knowing her, she didn’t hesitate for a second.

Feltsman turned his head away.

‘Are you going to cry?’ He heard his former partner giggle.

‘For fuck’s sake, I’m not! Better tell me how you’ve managed to find me.’

‘I’ve found out where you’d gone from your secretary. She told me I was only several minutes late. Really, Jackie… such spontaneous trips are so unlike you! Although…’ Tatyana’s face expression got more serious, ‘contemplating all by yourself is _so much like you_. Back in the old days, you would do that before competitions nonstop… and it never brought anything good.’

Ehh, that’s true…

‘Luckily, you cured me in that regard,’ Yakov murmured. ‘I can’t recall you ever getting stressed over something… even during the competition, you would flap your mouth until the last moment before getting on the ice. Your gibberish was so annoying that I have no conditions for contemplating! Getting pissed off by you was getting my attention away from the problems quite successfully.’

‘Well, the custom must be served.’ Grinning, Tatyana patted the seat behind her. ‘Get yourself on the motorbike.’

‘ARE YOU NUTS?! I’m not going to ride on that bloody anihilation machine, in the temperature of minus thirty degrees*, on top of that with a woman who doesn’t even have the fucking driving licence for the damn thing!’

‘Hmm… I think you have no other choice.’

Smacking her lips, the woman pointed at the Honda’s back. The car got a flat tyre.

‘Fuck!’ Yakov hissed. So the skid had some consequences to it, after all. Damn it! ‘I’ve got a spare tyre,’ Feltsman mumbled, raising up from the snowdrift.

‘Come on… do you really want to change a tyre in a weather like this? I’m not going to help you, that’s for sure! I could’ve broken a nail. The inn where mister Altin stays is only about a mile away from here. We’ll go there, you’ll warm up and you’ll pay some brat to take care of your precious Hondie’s tyre. Nobody would steal your car in a hellhole like this. Come ooon, Jackie… let’s get hammered, it’s going to be nice!’

And that thing again. The blonde witch was trying to get Yakov to the dark side as always! For past thirty years, always the same…

„Let’s have a bath in a fountain, it’s going to be nice!”  
„Let’s skate in our underwear only, it’s going to be nice!”  
„Let’s buy a bunny costume for Lilechka and send it to her for her birthday anonymously, it’s going to be nice!”

Not that Feltsman didn’t have any good memories of any of these suggestions. And getting hammered sounded _very tempting_. Fuck it! If he got killed on that two-wheel garbage, he wouldn’t have to care about losing the bet anymore.

‘But don’t give me a helmet.’ He sat behind Tatyana with a dose of hesitation. ‘I don’t want to end up as a bloody plant. If something happens, I want to die instantly.’

‘As you wish.’ The former skater put her black head protector back on. ‘But hold on tightly, all right? Ah, and don’t open your mouth for your own good.’

Yakov didn’t have a chance to ask about the reason for that strance instruction – the machine launched with a loud roar of the motor! Cursing during the drive finished in Feltsman having his teeth frozen. Aha. So _that’s_ why he should’ve kept his mouth closed. Well, fuck, brilliant!

The extreme experience didn’t last for long, luckily. They stopped in front of the inn before they knew it. Smiling, Tatyana gave the motorcycle back to a short old man with a beard.

‘Where will you go now, mister Altin?’

‘Back to Kazakhstan,’ the man said, putting his backpack in the luggage carrier. ‘I’m going to beg my son to give me a grandchild at last! When the little guy is born, I’ll get a kids’ chair for the motorcycle.’

 _Dear Lord, watch over that child!_ Yakov thought, putting his hands on his knees. _Fuck, not a single more of these bloody two-wheels ever again! The only time when I was more frightened was at the time of the posters incident…_

‘Thank you for your help once again.’ Tatyana kissed Altin’s cheek. ‘Bon voyage!’

The old man, now all red on his face, stuttered a quick „thank you” and hopped on his motorcycle. A few moments later he was already riding off into the sunset.

‘Oh, come on, Jackie, don’t pretend you’re feeling sick!’ The blonde witch patted her brother’s back dashingly. ‘Move on, vodka is waiting!’

‘I wish I’d got drunk _before_ the fucking ride!’ Yakov answered with an angry look.

‘I wish I had a camera. When you were getting off the motorcycle, your expression was _priceless_.’

‘If you’d taken a photo of me, you’d have had to run away to the edge of the world.’

‘You mean another galaxy… your mafia is everywhere.’

‘I don’t have any connections with mafia!’

‘Of course you don’t. Oh, can you hear what I hear? Some people are speaking French. Let’s get in! We’ll show the lightheaded Frogs how to drink in Russian!’

Right. They had to show the delicate foreigners what country they were in.

Shoulder to shoulder, Tatyana and Yakov walked into the tavern! They sat by the bar and then, pretending they haven’t seen the guys in berets sitting in the corner, they ordered _three bottles_ of clear vodka. Listening to exited whispers in French, they filled their glasses (not shot glasses – regular ones!) with the spirit and raising their wrists proffessionally, they poured the vodka into their throats. All the vodka at once. To the last drop. They repeated the ritual five times. Only then they agreed their need to impress „the foreign weaklings” had been filled and they could get to the point.

‘So…’ Yakov started carefully.

He put the glass to his mouth for the sixth time, but this time he just took a sip. The spirit’s bitterness was burning his throat nicely.

‘Mhm… sooo…’ Tatyana sang.

She dipped her finger in the drink, and then put it into her mouth while raising her light eyebrows playfully. Feltsman didn’t let himself to get fooled. He knew that his sister wasn’t drunk. She was just making a spectacle out of herself.

Lubicheva McKenzie’s ability to hold her drinks was almost legendary in the Russian Skating Federation. Besides… as Tatyana was running wild quite a lot being _sober_ , at most times it was simply impossible to tell whether she was under the influence of alcohol or whether she just was „being herself”.

It was quite similar with Yakov – he could be filling himself with unearthly amounts of booze and he still stayed the reasonable, surely nervous man that he was. The occassions when he got drunk enough to get silly-minded could be counted on fingers of one hand. And frankly speaking, he had no idea if these occassions really happened, as he didn’t remember them himself, only heard this and that in others’ stories. He wasn’t sure where his boundary was either… but if he ever got close to it, then only in the company of his sister of choice. Amongst his relatives and friends, only she was tough enough to keep up with him at drinking. It was also the reason why he liked getting hammered with her so much. Igor and Pavlo usually would fall off after the second bottle.

Tatyana started to fiddle with her glass with a smirk. ‘So…’ she repeated for the third time, ‘it finally happened. You and Vronkov. The final showdown. The arena. The fireworks! Yippie! That’s going to be quite a show. I want a first row ticket.’

Her blue eyes were just a little serious. Just as serious as the eyes of a kid cheering for their favourite character while watching a cartoon. Someone could’ve taken it for lack of respect… but Yakov – after two days of watching wide open mouths and deadly serious looks – was relieved. And positively shocked.

‘So you haven’t come here to tell me I must’ve gone mad and I should stand down?’ he asked.

‘Well, Igoryok actually told me to do so…’ Tatyana started waving her arms around and mimicking Antonov: ‘”Aaah, you’re the only hope left! Oh God, oh no, you infected Yakov with your recklessness and he’s gone mad! Stalin, Lenin, the Apocalypse! Tanya, I beg you, I beseech you, now, immediately, call him and tell him he needs a psychic!”’

Feltsman’s mouth formed a nasty smirk. ‘You hate doing what you’re told to do,’ he stated, taking another gulp. ‘He should’ve taken that into account.’

‘That’s true.’ The former skater took a long sigh. ‘But, you know… if I really thought you’ve gone mad, I wouldn’t care whether someone was telling me what to do.’

‘What would I have to do for you to start thinking I’d gone mad?’

‘Decline Vronkov’s challenge.’

The man almost dropped his glass in shock. Inhaling sharply, he raised his head, looking with his shook eyes at Tatyana. The blonde witch was sitting with her elbow on the counter and her hand put to her chin. The woman’s lips formed a goofy smile.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Yakov uttered, overwhelmed. ‘You’re just a malignant vixen and you’re messing with me as always…’

Lubicheva-McKenzie rolled her eyes. ‘Why would I be joking? What’s there to hesitate about? If you win, you get the rink for free. Do you have an idea how much is it worth? Only a fool wouldn’t take an opportunity like that.’

Feltsman blinked several times… and then he giggled. _A cactus,_ he thought, shaking his head. _Only a cactus could say something like that. Only a cactus would think that bet is a wonderful idea, not taking the possibility of losing into consideration at all and not giving a shit about the potential consequences._

‘You’ve always been different than others,’ he said, pouring more alcohol to both glasses. ‘Since the very first time I saw you, I knew you’re fucked up…’ He poured the contents of the glass into his throat, and then finished in a soft voice: ‘I never thought I would ever be so happy because of that.’

The woman raised her eyebrows, indicating a question.

‘You have no idea how much I needed someone… even just _one_ person who would tell me that my decision isn’t complete madness,’ he explained in a sad voice. ‘And even though I know this bet isn’t as fantastic as you were saying, ‘cause it’s in fact really risky and actually I’ve probably really gone mad when accepting it… even though I know it all, I feel a bit better thanks to you.’

The corner of Tatyana’s lips raised a little. ‘You’re afraid, aren’t you?’ she asked, with her half-closed eyes fixed on the glass. ‘You’re shaking in your boots at the thought of losing?’

Feltsman clenched his teeth. As every single man, he hated admitting such things. The contents of his trousers nearest to the fly demanded him keeping his mouth shut.

The thing was, if he wanted help, he had to swallow his pride in the first place.

‘That’s right,’ Yakov mumbled reluctantly, ‘I am afraid.’

‘There’s no need to be,’ Tatyana said with no hesitation, ‘you’re going to win, for sure.’

Feltsman let out a snort out of his mouth. _That’s a cactus. That’s so totally cactus…_

‘I appreciate that you want to cheer me up,’ he begun in an irritated voice, ‘but I’d rather you said me and Vronkov have an equal chance of winning. My _darling_ friends’ excessive sincerity pissed me off, but going to extremes is not good either way. And unjustified optimism won’t help me in any way.’

‘That’s not being optimistic, that’s only intuition and common sense.’

‘Common sense? Do you even have an idea what that word means?’

‘Of course I know! And my common sense is telling that chances of you and Reksio* are _not_ equal.’

Hearing Vronkov’s nick, Yakov almost choked on his vodka.

Yuh-uh… Reksio! No matter how many times he heard that name, it was always funny to him. Feltsman smirked. Ever since he could remember, Tatyana always tended to mispronounce names.

She was calling Yakov „Jackie”.

She called Vronkov „Alexei” at first, but she decided it was „too long and too formal” and shortened his name to „Alexi”. Some time after that she came to conclusion something was still wrong and the bald dick became „Lexi”.  But that was when Feltsman suggested the nickname was „not silly enough and not humiliating at all for the big-headed wanker he was”, so Tatyana launched her long thought process, and finally she got struck with a bolt of lightning and came up with „Reksio”.

(It was said that a Polish man named Lechoslaw heard that and created a cartoon about a playful canine, and the patch around the dog’s eye was inspired by the fact that Vronkov wore a shiner from Katerina at the time… but, frankly speaking, no one ever confirmed whether the creator of „Reksio” actually liked figure skating.)

‘Of course me and the bearded dick don’t have equal chances,’ Yakov murmured. ‘He’s got a self-confident little brat with two springs instead of legs, and I’ve got a cowardly ballet dancer.’

He barely managed to finish the sentence when he scolded himself in mind. Damn it, Igor and Pavlo’s shittalk must’ve got where it was supposed to. A coach doubting the student he’d been so protective about the day before! That was a fucking scandal!

‘Speaking of that…’ Tatyana started opening the third bottle. ‘Tell me something more about that whole scandal… you know, about these two brats, one of whom punched the other in his face, and that one turned him in later. I read something in the papers, but I didn’t want to settle my opinion before hearing from you… tell me, how it really was?’

At the mere word said about the scandal, Feltsman shivered. ‘Okay, then listen… Lyov is a little Jesus,’ he started in a painful voice. ‘He likes everyone, he doesn’t bother anyone, he’s polite to everybody and he’s at peace with world and everything. I’d be shocked if someone told be that kid looked at someone the wrong way, let alone punch his mate in the face. So when I was informed about the fight, I instantly knew something was wrong.’

‘Ivanko provoked him?’

Yakov nodded. ‘Indeed. And that was not the first time. But it was the first time he _succeeded_.’

‘Oh? So he’d been looking for trouble with Lyovochka on regular basis?’

‘Ivanko’s the type looking for trouble with everyone.’ Snorting loudly, Levin’s former coach poured next serving of the alcohol into his glass. ‘I’ve already had students who liked to tease others. I can deal with characters like „if I don’t nudge someone at least once a day, I can’t sleep”… if that was the case, it would’ve been a child’s play. You catch the deliquent in the act and have him go round the rink untill he sweats out all his aggression. Three punishments like that, and the brat doesn’t feel like teasing anymore. The real problem is… when the fights don’t happen on your watch.’

‘I see. The boy was clever?’

‘Annoyingly clever… it was bloody difficult to catch him red handed. Well… you know, I have my resources and I always get to find out who is pulling whose hair and who’s taking whose brunch…’

‘Sure.’ Tatyana winked at him. ‘After all, you know everything and you’re better informed than mafia itself.’

‘…so sooner or later I always found out about the little „shenanigans” of Ivanko,’ Yakov finished with a long sigh. ‘At first I thought it’s a classic bully… but then I’ve noticed a certain pattern and understood there’s more to the subject.’

‘A pattern?’

‘Ivanko didn’t tease others for teasing itself… he was simply _undermining his competitors_. Anytime some kid did something better than him… spinned faster, or got more praised for edges… then he’d do everything to bully them in some way. He’d laugh at his mate’s costume… or try to convince a younger one that if you have second hand skates, you shouldn’t be trying more difficult elements.’

The former skater’s eyes, usually cheerful, shone with a cold spark. ‘Everything to be the best one in the team?’

‘Exactly. So, you see… untill Ivanko was the number one, everything was well and kicking. But then Lyov appeared. A little hard worker with dreamy eyes. Not exceptionally talented, but good enough to be willing to watch him skating. And suddenly, out of the blue, the little motherfucker Levin realised that he not only had a competitor going head in head with him, but also the said competitor was deaf to all his insults, sheesh, he didn’t even understand half of these insults, so he had no other choice to try and beat him with hard work… and it’s worth saying Ivanko ISN’T a hard worker. Well… his talent compensates for it a lot, but… you know. Anyways, he’d been regularly provoking Lyov. Lyov wouldn’t react. BUT, as we all know well, persistence is the key to success. If you throw yourself at the shield regularly, sooner or later you will hit the right point. So Ivanko did.’

‘And what was that point? If I may ask…’

‘I heard he called Lyov’s mother a whore, and his father a loser.’

Tatiana shivered. ‘A little bastard,’ she mumbled. ‘You were right to take Lyovochka’s side.’

‘Of course I was bloody right!’ Yakov snorted. ‘Even Vronkov knows it. And the fact he took advantage of the situation to take over Levin brothers is another case…’

He closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened his eyes and before he lost his courage, he added: ‘I was relieved after I got rid of Ivanko… but losing Max hurt like hell! When the boy told me he didn’t want to skate in my club anymore, I felt so dreadful you can’t possibly imagine that! And not because he was a good skater, if you know what I mean.’

He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing by saying something like that. Eh, it must’ve been the alcohol’s fault… it would’ve been so better to save that embarrassing feeling to himself! And what if Tatyana would say same thing as Pavlo and Igor? Same thing as Vronkov? After all, it was the bald dick who dragged that weakness of Yakov out to the daylight.

Even Feltsman felt bad for being so emotionally connected to his students. The thought that others started to notice was not only embarrasing, but even frightening.

 _The knowledge of how much you care for someone is a weapon_ , Yakov thought, reaching for the bottle with his shivering hand. _A weapon you shouldn’t give to ANYONE. Especially to Vronkov._

Tatyana was silent for a long time. Sipping her vodka, she’d been keeping her eyes fixed on an undefined point. Finally, she put her glass aside and turned herself to Feltsman. ‘Listen…’

It hardly ever happened for her to speak about something so quietly. And so earnestly. Yakov was all ears.

‘…I’ve come here to tell you something. But before you can hear that, you should know that I’m not saying that because I love you like a brother and I wouldn’t doubt in you even if you told me you’d bet on who’d swim across Atlantic Ocean faster… although it did matter when I changed my ticket and went hitchhiking to get to Petersburg.’

 _Aha, so she was hitchhiking after all,_ Feltsman laughed in his mind.

‘What I’ll tell you now,’ Tatyana contunued, ‘it’s not an atempt in boosting your mood, but something I believe in with all my heart. I also know that despite it’s a bloody obvious thing, you woudn’t have thought of it yourself, especially when everyone around you is calling you a madman. I’ve come here to see you, because there are things you can see only when you’re a fucked up weirdo.’

Her slim hand with pink nails reached for his forearm and squeezed it hard.

‘You’re going to win that bet _not because_ you’ve got a better skater or that you know how to teach people. You’re going to win because you look at skaters and _you really see them_ … not their jumps, not spins, not the scores from the judges, but _living people_ and what they are capable of doing. You’re going to win because you can see a gold medal where nobody else can. Your skaters are the best proof of that.’

For a moment… for one short moment Feltsman wanted to believe his little sister. He wanted to nod and admit with a smile that she was right. But then, he remembered about something.

‘Everything sounds nice and sweet…’ he started with a bitter laugh, ‘but you forgot about one tiny detail. Maybe I can see the gold, but whatever I do, I always end up with the silver. I’ve been imagining that bloody color all my live… at least all my coaching career. Not a single one of my students has ever been a World Champion. And probably… probably no one will.’

Tatyana pursed her lips. She made an angry face and pulled Yakov’s wrist.

‘What the fuck are you doing?!’ he yelled, outraged.

‘I’ll read you palm.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Have you forgotten about my gypsy ancestry?’

‘Come on, you know I don’t believe in bullshit like that! Leave my hand alone!’

‘Hmm… let’s see… mhm… I can see at least _two_ World Champions in your career…’

‘FUCK! I’ve told you to knock it off!’

Feltsman yanked his hand out from the grip of the witch’s claws furiously. Tatyana puckered up and folded her arms, offended. ‘You’re so ungrateful,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m offering you fortune telling services for free, and you…’

‘I simply hate everything that’s imaginary, _especially_ Father Christmas, you understand?! A man is geeting excited without need, and then it turns out he’d been fooled.’

‘Okay, OKAY… Jesus, I’m sorry. I forgot you’ve got a trauma since instead of getting presents you got your arse beaten with a rod.’

‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I haven’t got a trauma, right?! If I was to have a trauma for some reason, it would be because I can’t coach talented people!’

Almost instantly after he said the last word, he covered his mouth with his hands. Damn it, he must’ve overestimated his tolerance to vodka. What the fuck was it, an contest in pitying oneself? A competiton in admitting the most embarassing weaknesses?! Damn it… if it really was to happen, Yakov would rather not remember a single part the next day!’

‘BARMAN!’ he yelled.

The man wiping shot glasses almost got a stroke. ‘Y-yes?’

‘BRING TWO MORE BOTTLES!’

After the said bottles were brought to them, Yakov opened the closest one and started to drink straight from it.

‘Eh, Jackie…’ Shaking her head, Tatyana started to open the other bottle. ‘If I’d known it was so bad, I would’ve come earlier. Why would you think you can’t coach talented people?’

‘Because the only exceptionally talented skater I had has left me for Vronkov.’ After engulfing a full quart in one go, Yakov’s chin fell to the counter.

The fifty-year-old, being at the edge of getting completely drunk, realised he looked like an idiot, but he decided to fuck it.

With a quiet smack, Tatyana’s small lips glued off the bottle. The empty bottle. Lubicheva-McKenzie drank everything at once.

‘The fact you haven’t found a little genius yet,’ she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with her wrist, ‘doesn’t mean you wouldn’t know what to do with them. Stop listening to all the bullshit others try to convince you with. If you believe a good coach is a coach who keeps the distance, then you will lose the bet indeed. Don’t change all your rules only because you didn’t let one kid spoil your good health, and he’s turned his butt at you in revenge. Don’t give up on Lyovochka only because he can’t jump the same jumps as Ivanko. And if you chose another kid for some reason, it shouldn’t be because you believe that a natural talent is better than hard work… but because you feel so, and your intution is telling you that, and you trust yourself, and after working that job for twenty years you know you are right.’

‘Thirty.’ Still having his head on the counter, Yakov let himself for a smirk. ‘I’d already been working with novices as a competitor. After working that job for thirty years, witch.’

Lubicheva-McKenzie noddded. ‘Exactly. Thirty years – that’s more than the age of your girls. That’s even bigger experience than Novak had when he decided we should become partners. Do you remember how it was with him? Do you remember how everybody would call him a madman? How they would tell him that it wouldn’t work out, that it was plain stupidity, that there were no chance for that combination to work…’

 _Even I was telling him that,_ Yakov remembered, feeling a wave of nostalgia upon him. _The famous speech on cactuses and ferns._

‘…everybody would tell him he’d gone mad, but coach Novak ignored everybody and did what he thought was the right thing. Sometimes that’s just how it is, Jackie. Of course, it’s a great feeling when you say something and the whole world is nodding and clapping and agrees with you and shouts: „congratulations, man, what a brilliant idea, you’re right, do what you do”. But sometimes… sometimes the whole world tells you you’re a complete idiot. Then you have to decide if you’d rather turn your tail and do as the world wishes, or have guts, show them your middle finger and do everything in your own way.’

Tatyana catched her foster brother’s hair and without having any delicacy in her mind, she pulled his head up. ‘So how the fuck is it, Feltsman?!’ she yelled with her face just a few inches in front of his. ‘Have you got your fucking nuts or you fucking haven’t?!’

Pressing his cheek on the counter angrily, Yakov mumbled: ‘Of course I fucking have.’

The blonde witch cheered up. ‘Great! Will you show me?’

‘Fuck off. I’m not taking my pants off in front of you.’

‘Erm… not literally. I meant that bet of yours.’

‘Ah, okay. Then yes, fine. I will show you.’

‘Excellent! Oh, poor boy… you must’ve drunk a bit too much, am I right?’

Feltsman’s foggy eyes moved to look at the empty bottles. There were quite a lot. Enought to do some bowling…

Yakov with great concern realised he started to feel the first symptoms of his alcoholic silliness.

‘Well then!’ Tatyana slapped his cheeks. ‘Now that we’re ensured you still have your Y chromosome, I can go to the airport in calm!’

‘You’re leaving?’ The weary man’s head moved on the counter in search of a colder spot. ‘So we’re not going bowling?’

‘Bowling?’

‘You know… fuck, the… the… bottle kind!’

The blonde harpy finally got what he meant. ‘Aah! Sorry, but no.’ She gave him a teasing smirk. ‘You’re drunk, dear Jackie, and I won’t be satisfied with an easy win.’

‘Drunk?’ Yakov mumbled. ‘Who’s drunk? Come on, I’ll destroy you.’

‘Next time, okay? I have my flight at two A.M. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late.’

‘What are you talking about? We still have got the day.’

‘No, it’s just the light in the pub. Outside it’s dark as in Vronkov’s brain.’

‘Oh shit, really?’

‘Yes, really. Come on, you’ll walk me to the cab.’

Yakov raised up from the chair reluctantly. When several minutes later he watched Tatyana getting into the car, in his last act of reason he shouted: ‘Wait!’

With one of her high heels in the car, she turned around and gave him a confused look.

‘I never asked you…’ he protected himself from the thick flakes of snow falling from the sky with his forearm, ‘during our first practise together, when I spanked you… why did you tell me you liked me and you wanted to skate with me?’

She blinked. She was standing frozen for a while… and then, she smiled. ‘What do you mean ‘why’? Because I understood you are the first man who wouldn’t let me hurt myself! Believe me or not, but before we started to skate together, I was very similar to that ex-student of yours, Max. But unlike him, I could appreciate someone taking care of me.’

Yakov opened his mouth in shock.

‘Don’t stop taking care for others!’ Tatyana shouted. ‘Don’t take your love back from your skaters, okay?’

Hearing the word „love”, Feltsman blushed and stumped his foot angrily. ‘And… and y-you, don’t throw your fucking sentimental bullshit at me!’

She laughed loud in answer. ‘You said the same thing when I said you shouldn’t hide with your love for Lilechka. I hope you’ll keep my advice in heart this time as well. Take care!’

She winked at him for the last time, and then closed the cab’s door and left for the airport.

Yakov was left alone. Exactly like he assumed he would be when he left for that trip. The thing he didn’t foresee was that at the end of the day he would get hammered. And that being drunk as he was, he would end up in a place with no overnight accomodation. When the scared barman informed him about it, Feltsman mumbled a swear word. He considered taking a cab that would take him to Petersburg… but on the other hand he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his car, abandoned in the wild. And it was needles to say he wasn’t happy at the thought of losing his beloved Honda! A hellhole is a hellhole, but when you lived in Russia, the risk of getting robbed was always around the corner.

In the end Yakov decided it would be better to walk that one unfortunate mile and stay in the car overnight. In the boot, like in old, good, communistic times! His mind, foggy with alcohol, got excited at the idea instantly! Eh, right… there’s nothing quite like sleeping in the boot!

As it turned out, not only drunk coaches would wander in a forest at night. Walking on the side of the road, Yakov passed a cyclist. Seeing Feltsman’s open coat, the youngman dressed in layers raised his eyebrow.

‘Ouch, you’re quite immune to cold, mister… Isn’t it a bit too late for a walk?’

‘What about a bike ride?’ the fifty-year-old mumbled angrily.

He was up to lecture the kid, but then he saw skates peeping out of his backpack. ‘You’re coming back from the practice?’ he got interested.

‘Mhm. I play hockey.’

Yakov’s thoughts roared in triumph. Well, well! That dumbbell must’ve fallen from the sky!

‘Could you tell me where the ice rink is? I’d like to skate a bit as well.’

‘Sure thing. You have to turn right behind the bridge. Then you’ve got to drive… or rather walk straight on. You won’t get lost for sure. But you won’t be able to skate tonight… the coach closed the rink earlier. He had to go to the theatre to see his wife’s show. But if it really matters to you, there’s a frozen pond. You need to go down the hill next to the „Novovladimirsk” sign. But carefully, ‘cause it’s bloody slippery there. We put a warning sign there, but some vandal has broken it.’

Feltsman snorted loudly. He wanted to say that only a fucked up madman would skate on a frozen pond in the middle of a forest, but then the young man added: ‘But if I were you, I would give it up. You’ve drunk so much that you won’t keep the balance even for five seconds.’

When parents are warning their children of the devil, in reality they mean alcohol. Aah… ‘cause alkohol is like devil indeed. It whispers bad thinsgs to humans’ ears. Like now it did with Yakov’s: _How this kid dares to suggest you won’t keep your balance on the ice! You’ve had five bottles of vodka – so what! You’re Yakov Feltsman! The greatest coach in Russia and an Olympian! No brat from any hellhole can ever say you won’t keep the balance on the ice!_

‘Exactly!’ the drunk man yelled out loud. ‘You’re not going to be telling me… well… that… you know, that, what you’ve just said! I want to go skating, so I will go skating!’

‘Erm… okay?’

‘You don’t believe me, do you?!’

‘Uhh… well, no, I do, but… eh, damn it, I can’t talk to drunk people. Whatever, have a nice evening! But be careful. That pond is haunted by a pixie.’

Yakov blinked. ‘A pixie?’ he shouted at the leaving boy, ‘What fucking pixie are you talking about? And where the fuck do you see a drunk?!’

He wasn’t given any answer. The cyclist’s silhouette soon disappeared in the darkness of the night. Feltsman’s hands made fists. _A pixie… my arse! And what, maybe fucking Father Christmas as his companion? Of course!_

He really must’ve had one bottle of vodka too much… really! He didn’t know what had tempted him… but he really did what he said he’d do.

After coming to his car he really took his skates out of the boot. He really walked down the hill, of course tripping over on his way (it might’ve been connected to the fact that he should’ve put his skates on _after reaching the pond, not by the car_ , but Yakov was too wasted to think about it more). He really found the frozen reservoir and started to skate.

‘You see!’ he shouted into the open air, ‘I won’t keep my balance for five seconds, right?! And what the fuck are you going to say now, lad?!’

Ah, that kid was already gone. He’d left. Good… but where the fuck was the pixie?

Yakov stopped in the middle of the pond to watch the surroundings for a while. Well, well, one was for sure – the place looked like it’d been taken out of a fairy tale, indeed. The trees were a satisfactory protection from the snowflakes falling from the sky, but he could see it between the spiky tops. The moonshine was reflected on the ice in a truly majestic way. Really, a true fairy tale atmosphere! But the pixie was nowhere to be found…

Breathing out a sigh, Feltsman started to go in cirles lazily. He’d finished three first phases of being drunk – joy, irrational ideas and rage – and he was entering the forth, most terrible phase.

Sadness.

Yakov moved over the frozen pond and thought how sad and unfair all of that was… and difficult, and weied, and so complicated! The reason why he and Lilia got the divorce… the reason why he turned Max Levin from him… the reason why he had to get himself into that bloody risky bet!

All of that was just too much… too much for one man! It must’ve been a high time to make a complaint.

Imagining that he was facing the God, Yakov looked up to the sky and yelled in a bittel voice: ‘You know what? I’m fucking fed up with you! GIVE ME A FUCKING SIGN!’

And them, completery exhausted, he fell to the ground. At first, he started to wave with his arms and legs to make a snow angel, but then he remembered he was lying not on the snow, but on the ice. Freezing without a move, he closed his eyes.

 _I’m tired_ , he thought. _I’m tired with having to deal with the whole world constantly! I’m not moving from here until Father in Heaven gives me a hint on what to do._

If he’d been sober he’d have known that he had no chance of getting a responce from high up there. I he’d been sober, he most likely wouldn’t have believed in God. But as he stayed drunk all that time, he couldn’t act rationally and believed in everything. Even in Father Christmas. Or pixies.

Eh, that dumb cyclist must’ve been messing with him… but wait! Wasn’t that a sound of wheels? Could that guy possibly…?

Feltsman listened to the noise more carefully. No… no, that couldn’t have been a bike! That wasn’t the sound that wheels would make! A bike chain was more likely… no, not a bike chain! Blades. And if these were blades, then maybe…

_Ice skates?_

The creaking became more intensive all of the sudden, as if someone had speeded up. The noise was becoming louder and louder… and when it was right by Yakov’s head, it stopped suddenly. The blades sprayed the fifty-year-old’s face with little chips of ice when they stopped. Nothing was happening for some time. Feltsman started to think he only imagined all that, but then…

‘Are you a tramp, Mister?’

Yakov opened his eyelids slowly… and in disappointment he figured out that pixies didn’t look like he’d always been imagining them. The creature leaning over Feltsman didn’t have green face, spiky ears or sharp teeth.

It had long, silver hair and large, blue eyes.

 

 

 **Reader** , if you agree with Tatyana’s words, **leave a comment!**

 **Reader** , if you want to warm up Yakov’s weary heart, **click the heart button and leave kudos! <3**

 

xXx

      

*minus thirty degrees – in Celcius. In Fahrenheit, it’s about minus twenty degrees.

*Reksio ( _Rek_ as in _wreck_ , _sio_ as in _show_ but with softer _sh_ and without narrowing the _o_ to the _u_ sound… yeah, my explanations of how to pronounce words are rubbish) is a character from a Polish animated TV series for kids. He’s a dog and the series is about the adventures he has. You can watch [an episode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bqK-RDOxVI) to get an idea what the series looks like :D

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s Note]  
> I’m sorry you had to wait for this chapter so long [TN: that applies to me as well, sorry]. First I went to a convention, and then I’ve gone on a holiday! Quite a large part of this chapter has been written by the Polish sea ;) And of course more conventions are coming, so I have my hands full of work at all times. Although I am sure next parts are going to be published regularly [TN: not so sure about that part on my side].  
> Why am I so certain about it?  
> Because… we’re entering a REALLY interesting phase of the story. ;)  
> The appearance of the mysterious pixie will turn Yakov’s world upside down.  
> You have time until the next chapter… to equip yourself with an oxygen tube. You’re going to need it ^^  
> [Technical note]  
> Yakov, Pavlo and Igor love rummy. As I found out that several people know different variations of the game, I’ll list the rules Feltsman and his frands play with: everyone has 14 cards (15 after taking a card from a pile), you need a sequence and 51 points in order to lay off, and if you want to take a card that had been discarded by the person sitting on your right, you have to meet the conditions for laying off and lay off immediately after taking the card. That’s how my granpa taught me to play :D (and it’s worth saying he used to play for money)  
> That’s it. As a dessert, you get a picture of Tanya :3  
> As usually, I’m sorry for any mistakes.  
> See you next week! [TN: or later]
> 
>  
> 
> [Translator’s Note]  
> ‘Two (and a half) weeks,’ she said… ‘I can do it that quickly, I don’t have THAT much work,’ she said… Well, you must’ve noticed I was lying. I’m so, so sorry! The only explanation I can give you is that it’s a very difficult year for me and I had very much to do in past few weeks… But I will try to speed up a little!  
> I have a huge difficulty with the ‘BB’ words. Can I just turn Yakov’s rage into a Beauty Blender? Or Beauty Balm? They can be dangerous, especially these ones called ‘light’ that come in the shade of Nutella… Please tell me what do you think of the one I’ve come up with.  
> Translating this chapter was SO MUCH fun. I’ve learnt how to play rummy (more or less), I found out the cards’ names are much more complicated than I thought, and also I used three of my Most Favourite Words (earnest, shenanigans and pond) (don’t ask me why do I have a list of Most Favourite Words).  
> I’m right off to translating the next chapter (spoilers: it’s going to be amazing!) and crying over my poor exams’ results! I really hope I’ll manage to finish the next chapter faster (it’s a bit shorter, if I remember well…), but this time… no promises I wouldn’t be able to keep. Let me know of any mistakes!


	4. Chapter 3: Five steps of getting sober

Ring, ring! Ring, ring!

The clouds in the sky parted, and the car’s interior had been lightened up with the first beam of light of the day. A muscular arm emerged from the plurality of blankets scattered all over the car’s boot. A hand wearing a gold signet ring started to paw the surroundings in search of the mobile phone. The next moment, the blankets were launched up in the air and the man’s head hit the ceiling.

‘Damn!’ Yakov mumbled a swear word.

Finally, he found the phone. Brushing his fingers through his hair resembling a bird’s nest, he pressed the green button.

‘Hello?’ he mumbled deliriously.

‘Oh heck, have I woken you up?’ he heard Igor’s surprised voice asking. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were still sleeping. You know it’s already 11 am, don’t you?

Instead of giving his answer, Feltsman rubbed his eyes, weary after the harsh night’s sleep.

‘Yakov? Are you there?’

‘Yeaf, eyeam.’ His response was a bit distorted with a yawn.

‘Umm… everything alright? Are you feeling well?’

‘Fucking great,’ Yakov mumbled, stretching his arms lazily. ‘I’m feeling fantastic. Why are you asking?’

He heard a sigh of relief on his side. ‘Listen, I’m calling you because… well… I… I want to say sorry for yesterday,’ Igor said shyly. ‘I and Pavlo were talking to Tatyana and we’ve got a bit scolded for not being supportive… actually, we’ve got  _very_ scolded… she threatened she’d curse us, and so on… and we’ve figured out that even though we think it’s a stupid idea and it would be better to give up the rink, ‘cause it would be safer… we want you to know that we’ll do everything to help you! I mean… we will leave this year anyway, as we’d been planning that way earlier… but we’ll try to find the proper people in our place! And help you. With the bet, I mean.’

‘What bet?’ Feltsman ask in a voice suggesting he’d been high as a kite.

He flinched when his eyes met the sun all of the sudden.

‘What… bet?’ the manager repeated foolishly. ‘You know… The Bet! The Bet written wit capital „B”. Don’t you remember? You and Vronkov? All or nothing?’

‘Aaah.’ Yakov yawned once again. ‘Yeah, I remember. I know what you’re talking about.’

‘Erm… are you sure about that? ‘Cause, you know… heheh… how do I put it… you sound very weird. You’re strangely relaxed. Don’t you want to yell a bit? Over the last couple days you acted like a walking nuclear bomb…’

‘Maybe I did, but I’m done with that.’

‘You’re done?’ Igor cheered up. ‘Oh heck, that’s amazing! Jesus, you have no idea how happy I am! So it was a good idea to send Tatyana to meet you… you had a talk and you felt better, right?’

‘No.’

‘Erm… no?’

Yakov realised he was a bit cold, so he started to look for the car keys. Nothing would happen if he turned the heating on for some time, would it?

‘I’ve just had a completely fucked up dream tonight,’ he mumbled, reaching for his jacket.

‘A dream?’

‘Yeah, a dream. And what happened in that dream crashed my brain so badly that I totally stopped to care about the bet.’

A silence fell for a moment.

‘Erm… okay?’ Igor said in an „I don’t get it at all.” voice.

‘It’s just that when I realised it was only a dream I was so relieved that you couldn’t possibly have a fucking idea.’ Yakov’s hand immersed in the jacket’s pocket. ‘The God sent me a message. He’s made me aware I have nothing to complain about. Maybe a lot of unpleasant stuff happened to me, but now I know there are people whose lives are harder. Such people as Father Frost or Spring the Beauty.’

‘Father Frost and Spring the Beauty?’

‘Exactly them.’ His fingers finally found the key’s metallic surface.

‘So you dreamt about them? And you figured out their situation is even worse than yours?’

‘Of course their situation is worse! When I think how much trouble they have raising up that little, deviant…’

In that moment Feltsman fished out the key and he realised something was attached to it. Something that wasn’t there  _before_. A keychain with an inscription.

Yakov could give only one reaction to that. The morning numbness transformed into fury in a second. With a vain showing on his forehead, Feltsman yelled: ‘THAT DAMN FUCKER!’

‘Eeek!’ Igor answered with a frightened squeak. ‘Y-Yakov, I’m fond that you’re yourself again, but please, don’t take the name of the Lord your Christ’s lover in vain. Not that loud, at the v-very least. O-or at least warn me first, would you? I-I don’t want to become deaf at such young age…’

‘Shut up!’ Feltsman snapped angrily. ‘I’m going to swear as much as I want! Damn it! So that was  _not a dream_. I’ve really met him.’

‘You’ve met who?’

Yakov clenched his teeth. The hand that was holding the chain started to shiver. ‘Who have I met… you’re asking me  _who have I met_? The most FUCKED UP eight-year-old walking this Earth! That’s who I’ve met!’

On the other side, Igor swallowed a gulp nervously. ‘C-could you share some more details? What exactly has happened?’

With a painful expression, Feltsman pressed his hand against his forehead. ‘You don’t want to know. Believe me, you  _don’t_ fucking want to know…’

Right, right, Igor had no idea what he was asking for! He’d better live in his blissful ignorance. Yakov didn’t have that luxury. Unfortunately, he could remember what exactly had happened excellently. He could perfectly remember the circumstances in which he’d beaten his own record in sobering up completely.

He remembered everything. Every single, tiny, fucking detail…

 

****A few hours earlier** **

‘Are you a tramp, Mister?’

With excitation on its sweet little face, the mysterious creature smiled at Yakov. If the pixie leaned any further, its long, silver hair would fall into Feltsman’s eyes.

But… was it really a pixie?

The drunk man let himself have a moment to have a better look at the odd creature. The colour of its hair and the length of its eyelashes indicated one of the preppy God’s messengers, called angels. A Tolkien’s elf could do as well. But no, its ears were perfectly normal! The clothing indicated the modern times as well: a white jumper, grey sweatpants with purple straps on the sides, black hockey skates… nothing remarkable. Just some typical attributes of a ten year old child. Oh, right!

 _What an idiot I am…_ Yakov thought, resigned.  _It’s not a pixie, it’s a girl!_

To have been working with brats for thirty years and mistake a human child with an extraterrestrial creature! Eh, he must’ve really lost his touch in terms of controlling his mind when being under the influence of alcohol… pfft!  _A pixie_! What a nonsense.

On the other hand… even if that thing really was a girl, it didn’t have to mean it was  _normal_. After all, normal children didn’t lean over strangers’ (obviously drunk strangers) heads with expressions indicating they must have found a package of lollipops.

A warning alarm went off in Yakov’s head: „Something is wrong with that girl! Run, until you can… run and get the hell out of here!”

But Feltsman ignored these feelings. It was children running  _from him_ , not the other way round.

And… what could a little, helpless ten-year-old could do to him? She didn’t seem dangerous. Only maybe a bit annoying. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away?

Giving a sigh, Feltsman closed his eyes. He had no intention of forcing his poor, messed with the alcohol mind to deal with more logical thinking. Come what may, he wouldn’t move an inch from where he was!

 _I’ll act like a bloody rock_ , he decided.  _Nobody and nothing will force me to lose my peace of mind._

„Misteeer!’ he heard a loud chirrup by his ear. ‘So are you a tramp, Mister, or are you nooot?’

Yakov’s eyebrow shivered, but the exhausted fifty-year-old stayed in the same place. Eh, it seemed like he shouldn’t have hoped for peace before giving the answer. ‘No, I’m not,’ he murmured.

‘Ah! You have to be Father Frost*, then! I want a dog! A huge dog.’

_WHAT THE?!_

Feltsman opened his eyes instantly. That would be it in terms of pretending to be a rock. For fuck’s sake… what an impertinent kid! Not only did she take him for a bloody present doner, but also started to make claims! She’s got a lot of nerve!’

‘I’m not Father Frost,’ he stuttered, treating the girl with the most threatening look he was able to force: ‘I  _hate_  Father Prost.’

‘Oh my, why is that so?’

‘Because his birthday is on the same day that Stalin’s.’

‘And who’s Stalin?’

‘Asking that question forty five years ago would end up for you getting your arse bruised with a rod!’

‘Aah… so Stalin is a… Evil Father Frost?’ the girl assumed. ‘The one that gives people rods instead of presents?’

It was a very euphemistic way to describe a man who’d been holding the Soviet Union in his grip for thirty years. But Yakov was too tired and too wasted to play a history teacher.’

‘Something like that,’ he mumbled. ‘And now, piss off! I’m busy.’

‘Ooh… and what are you doing?’

‘Pitying over myself. And waiting for a sign.’

‘What sign?’

‘Any sign.’

‘And that means?’

‘Just a regular sign.’

‘A road sign? But you know it’s not going to come to you by itself?’

Feltsman clenched his teeth angrily. For God’s sake, what an annoying creature! Why wouldn’t it just piss off?!

‘I’ll wait. Maybe it will come.’

‘If you think so, you must be an onanist.’

That moment, about twenty percent of Yakov’s mind sobered up. Feltsman raised to a sitting position. ‘I must be WHO?!’ he uttered in a choked voice.

‘Well… an… optinanist!’

The shocked fifty-year-old scratched his head.  _Onanist? Optinanist? Aah!_

‘You mean, optimist?’ he snapped.

The kid nodded her head enthusiastically.

‘I’m not an optimist,’ Yakov barked. ‘I’m the greatest pessimist this world has seen.’

‘Who’s a penisist?’

Feltsman furrowed his eyebrows angrily. ‘ _Pessimist_ ,’ he highlighted, ‘is someone who is NOT an optimist.’

He wondered whether the brat was mispronouncing words on purpose or whether she was just bubble-headed? Well… the innocence on her face suggested the second answer. The experienced coach shivered a bit. Years of working with many types of people taught him that it was better to deal with a class clown than with a moron who didn’t even have an idea they were doing something stupid.

Yakov dealt with a moron like that only once in his life. The said moron was named Tatyana.

Giving an irritated snort, Feltsan returned to lying on the ice and closed his eyes. Like he hoped that when he would open them, the annoying creature would be gone.

 _Maybe it’s just hallucinations?_ he thought in hope.  _A sick creation of a mind filled with vodka? Half adults I know wouldn’t be perverted enough to come out with „onanists and penisists”… let alone a little brat doing something like that NOT ON PURPOSE! And by the way, I’ve been treating that kid with a look promising trouble for quite a while. Why hasn’t she ran away? There’s no way some kid would look into my angry eyes and not run for their mummy. Uh, that’s probably because NONE of this is actually HAPPENING! Right, right, the whole situation is simply unreal._

Wishful thinking. The pressure he felt in his bladder indicated that the situation was  _very much real_.

‘Shit, I need to take a piss,’ Yakov mumbled.

The problem was that in order to do that, he’d have to stand up. And he happened to not have enough power to even move his little finger. Eh, how good that his belt unbuckled itself on its own. And the fly opened by itself… WAIT! Wait a moment, WHAT?!

Realising the little hands were pulling his trouser leg, Yakov raised up to sitting position once again. When he looked at the girl trying to strip him off of the bottom half of his clothing, he was sober in forty percent.

‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!’ he yelled, pulling the trousers back up on his butt.

‘Well… I’m helping you to take your clothes off, so you wouldn’t piss your pants,’ the nymph said in a voice that made her sound like it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

‘Fuck, I’ll do just fine on my own!’

‘Aaah! I see, so you’ve got a nappy. Dmitri told me old people wear nappies.’

‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I don’t wear a nappy! I’ve just got control over my bladder, right?!’

Yakov’s little finger settled on being able to move, after all. His legs regained strength in a magical way as well. Funny, how a perspective of losing his trousers could motivate a man…

Mumbling swear words, Feltsman stood up and then, stumbling a little, he skated towards the edge of the pond. He opened his fly and started emptying his bladder with a sigh of relief.

 _It was high time,_ he sighed in his mind.  _A little longer and I actually would have pissed my pants._

‘Are you going to pee something pretty on the snow?’ he heard a child’s voice.

‘Yeah. A fucking Mona Lisa.’

‘WOW! Really?’

‘No.’

The girl moaned in disappointment. Her face looked like she’d been told by her daddy she wouldn’t get any candy.

Speaking of daddies… something come across the peeing man’s mind. ‘Anyway, why are you loitering alone in the night?’ Yakov asked in a careful voice. ‘Have you got any parents, or anyone?’

‘Of course I’ve got parents!’ he heard a cheerful answer. ‘You really thought that children are found in cabbage patches?’

Hearing the statement, Feltsman hurt his finger with a zip.  _She’s got the mouth, that’s for sure,_ he thought, blowing air on his wounded hand.

He fell to the ice again. But that time he stayed in sitting position, with his legs stretched in front of him – he’d rather keep his eye on the little smartass.

‘Let’s leave that what I thought,’ he sighed, scratching his nape. ‘So where are your parents, then?’

‘In the theatre. My mummy is an actress and she’s got a role in some play tonight. I usually watch mummy’s performances, but today daddy told me the play was only for adults so he’s left me here. He said that if I don’t do anything stupid, I might meet Father Frost.’

 _Ah, so that’s why she thought I was him!_ Yakov snorted in his mind.

His drunk self felt a vengeful need to bring her down to Earth. ‘You daddy pulled your leg,’ the fifty-year-old realist stated, looking down at the child. ‘There’s no Father Frost. Father Frost doesn’t exist.’

‘He does exist! He gave me a Sony tape player! I’ve got it yesterday in a package with a pink ribbon.’

‘Father Frost, and yet he’s giving presents in May?’ Yakov teased. ‘Knock it off your head, kid… you can’t believe every single word adults say. Start using your brains, or you’ll end up being a loser. You’ve got the package probably from your grandma or something…’

He realised saying such things to a little child was a bit mean – not to say: fucky – but he just couldn’t find any strength in himself to fight the alcohol pumping in his veins.

‘Father Frost visits me in May because my birthday is in December,’ the girl said. ‘I don’t really get it, but mummy said she’s come to an agreement with Father Frost.’

Feltsman made a lot more tender expression.  _Your parents probably just can’t afford getting presents for you twice a month,_ Yakov thought sadly.  _Adults have lots of worries, don’t you know? Bills, and so on…_

‘On the other hand…’ the little witch folded her arms and stared into the sky with thoughtful eyes. ‘The package was signed „For Vivi”. Only my granny calls me „Vivi”. OH, GOD!’

_Aha? She must’ve got it…_

‘What if my granny is  _sleeping_ with Father Frost?!’ the girl moaned, grabbing her cheeks.

Yakov bawled his eyes. His expression couldn’t get any more idiotic, even if he’d been told the President of Russia would’ve been given a blow job by Vronkov.

‘No chances,’ he huffed after a while.

‘But you don’t get it.’ Disappointed, the girl shook her head. ‘My granny would seduce even the Easter Bunny!’

‘Your granny can’t seduce someone who  _doesn’t exist_ ,’ Feltsman snapped in an impatient voice. ‘She hasn’t nicked that tape player from the North Pole. She’s just gone to a shop and bought it for her pension. Old people often spend money for toys for their beloved grandchildren. That’s their hobby, you know?’

‘Not my granny. My daddy always repeats,’ the little elf brushed her hair back and started to imitate her father’s deep voice, making an annoyed face: ‘Your grandma’s got only two kinds of hobbies! The first one’s pissin’ me off, the other’s gettin’ married.’

‘Ah. And how many she had? Husbands, I mean?’

‘Four. And one daughter with each of them.’

‘Well, fuck, nice, then.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Vivi cheered up. ‘I like riding in granny’s car the most! Granny lives and Paris, and the traffic laws are very, very strict there! Almost every time we get stopped by police. But you know what? Granny’s never, ever got a ticket! You should imagine the policemen’s faces when granny’s telling them her name is Luba Yurievna Tarasova Malherbe Barbarossa Rozhdestvenska!’

Feltsman imagined that, indeed. And he instantly stated that the Frog who would repeat all these names in the first go should get the Oscar! Or the Noble. Or some kind of The Best Poliglote Award. If something like that even existed…

‘No wonder your gran’s not getting tickets,’ he snorted, tucking his freezing hands into his coat’s pockets. ‘Probably no one feels like rewriting all these names from her driving license.’

‘Granny hasn’t got a driving license. She’s not getting tickets because policemen don’t like when someone is trying to take their trousers off.’

 _Ah, so now at least I can tell who do you take after_ , Yakov snapped in his thoughts.  _There’s nothing quite like passing your „great features” down to your sweet grandchild._

‘I’ll remember not to drive my car around Paris anymore,’ he mumbled out loud. ‘And by the way… which of these names is your mother’s maiden name?’

‘Rozhdestvenska. Before she’s married my daddy, mummy’s name was Anastasia Nikolaevna Rozhdestvenska.’

‘Pfft! Sure your mother was relieved when she could change her last name. If I was named like her, I wouldn’t dare to show myself in…’

Suddenly, something came across Yakov’s mind. To be more exact, a chat he recently had with his mate from Poland. Hasn’t Ryszard said something that in their country the dick giving out presents was called…?! OH, FUCK!

‘Nikolaevna?’ Feltsman uttered, looking at Vivi like she’d been an omen of the Apocalypse. ‘Wait… so… it means that your gramps is called… Nikolai Rozhdestvenski? *?! FATHER FROST?!’

The alcohol in the man’s body chose that exact moment to remind of his presence. For one single moment, Yakov’s mind denied any common sense! With his buttocks still pressing the ice, Feltsman jumped (or rather: crawled) a few yards back.

‘Stay away from me!’ he shouted, pointing at the girl with his finger accusingly. ‘I know why you’ve got white hair and why you’re calling me an onanist! It’s a plot! Father Frost, my arch enemy, sent down his descendent to make me lose my mind!’

The said descendent of Saint Nicholas blinked several times. And then she covered her tiny mouth and giggled. ‘So you think I’m Snegurochka*?’ she asked, throwing her long, silver hair behind her back.

Two cheerful sparkles shined in her blue eyes.

‘Well, I don’t know…’ Yakov raised his eyebrow suspiciously. ‘Are you?’

‘I’m going to be in a week. We’re having a play at my school. Our form teacher said I should play Snegurochka. You can come and see…’

Remembering Ostrovski’s fairy tale, Feltsman shivered. ‘No fucking way! I hate that bloody play.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s fucking depressing, you know?! The daughter of Father Frost and Spring the Beauty suffers from her loneliness, so she gives up her immortality to find out what do love and life mean. And how it ends? Well, of course, the Snow Maiden walks out to the sun and she’s fucking melting! Thank you very much for a fairy tale like that… I’ve got enough drama in my own life.’

‘There’s no need to worry! Our Snegurochka will have a happy ending! My classmate is going to play a prince from a foreign country. We’re going to kiss at the end!’

‘Ah, so it’s romance? Well, fuck, that’s even better. I hate romances.’

‘Porn rocks!’

‘EXCUSE ME?!’

Another dose of alcohol magically left Yakov’s organism. The man was sober in at least sixty percent!

 _Keeping this pace, I’m going to sober up in an hour at most!_ he thought in anger.

But why the fuck was he supposed  _not_ to sober up?! Fuck, how was he supposed not to, if a brat barely sticking out of the ground was talking about PORN?!

‘My grandpa has a keychain with an inscription like that,’ the girl said, spreading her arms cheerfully. ‘”I hate romances. Porn rocks!”’

Feltsman’s shoulders loosened a little. Ah, so that’s where the expression came from…

_Well, well… the kind of family you should envy! Deviant grandfather, deviant grandmother… I’m afraid to ask about the parents!_

‘Do you even know what porn is?’ Yakov asked, giving the kid another face like thunder. ‘You’re ten years old!’

‘Eight.’

‘Fuck, that’s even worse!’

‘No, I don’t know. But it sounds cool.’

 _„Fuck communists” also sounds cool,_ Yakov wanted to say,  _but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to say it left and right. If you were older, I would tell you how a youngster named Feltsman had written that on his lunchbox. Unfortunately… it’s NOT a kid’s fairy tale._

‘Your Father Frost should have taught you not to say something when you don’t know what it means,’ he said instead.

‘Erm… but I meant my other grandpa,’ Vivi said. ‘Not the grandpa Nikolai, but grandpa Viktor. The grandpa on my daddy’s side.’

The blue eyes got darkened with sadness all of the sudden. The hockey blade’s tip started to draw little circles on the ice.

‘Grandpa Victor taught me to skate…’ the child said with a strand of her hair falling down, ‘but now he won’t teach me anything else. He died a year ago.’

The frozen pond suddenly became incredibly quiet. They could hear only the wind’s soft whispers, leading little snowflakes to the dark brown hair of the fifty-year-old and the silver head of the eight-year-old. Feltsman’s eyes lingered on his hand resting on his knee for a moment. The gold signet ring shined in the moonlight. So did the black buttons of his coat.

The signet ring was a gift from Artyom Baranovski. The coat used to belong to Vadim Feltsman. Maria Baranovskaya left some books behind. Mister and Missus Feltsman left nothing. Nothing at all.

The temperamental man’s eyes – just a moment before, shining and furious – became just as sad as the silver haired kid’s eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Yakov said in a soft voice. ‘I know how it is. My loved ones left me not so long time ago as well.’

The girl didn’t respond immediately. She skated around for a while, with her hands behind her back and her head up, looking towards the sky. Looking at her, the sober part of Feltsman’s mind sorted out that whoever he was, Granpa Viktor did a good job. Probably even someone who didn’t know anything about skating would notice the ease in with tiny hocked skates moved across the ice. As if they’d been glued to it. Yakov thought it reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t remember whom. Eh, damn it… he really shouldn’t have drunk that much.

‘Grandpa Viktor always played with me.’ Vivi’s voice interrupted his thought. ‘We used to come here. And now than grandpa isn’t here anymore, skating on this pond isn’t that much fun anymore. I mean… sometimes I skate here with my daddy, but my daddy is a coach and he’s always trying to correct me. And he’s shouting a lot. And he’s very strict.’

_Ah? This reminds me of someone…_

Feltsman breathed a long sigh. ‘Don’t blame your father,’ he mumbled, massaging his nape. ‘I’m sure he shouts at you because he cares about you. That’s how coaches express their love. And fathers do as well.’

The blue eyes were lightened up with joy instantly. ‘Really?’ the girl asked.

She looked at Yakov like he’d been Father Frost, giving out presents. The simile made Feltsman grimace.

‘Yeah, really,’ he grunted, turning his eyes away. ‘You have my word for that.’

‘Wow, that’s great! It’s the first time an adult told me something that  _wise_! Usually, when I complain about my daddy’s yells, adults tell me that I deserved it and that several bruises on my seat wouldn’t do me any harm.

 _That’s a different matter_ , Yakov snorted in his mind.  _I know you only for fifteen minutes, but if someone was looking for somebody to spank you, I’d volunteer for sure._

Eh, that girl’s father couldn’t have a simple life with her, indeed. Especially if he was her coach as well. Feltsman always wondered how it would’ve looked in his case… if he’d become a father and if he’d been supposed to coach his own child. Would he be able to keep the distance? Or maybe he’d be one of these blokes telling themselves they haven’t got a favourite student, even know they know the truth deep inside? That was the case of Max. And he wasn’t even his actual son…

Feltsman started to feel nauseous. And it wasn’t  _only_ because of the vodka.

‘…ter!’

No one knows when, the girl’s nose materialised a few inches in front of Yakov’s nose.

‘FUCK!’ Jumping back rapidly, the enraged man gave the kid indignant look. ‘Don’t sneak near me! Do you even know what „personal space” means?!’

‘No, I don’t know what „personanal space” means. The only thing I know is that you were out for a moment and I couldn’t reach you in any way…’

‘In moments like these you are supposed to leave a man alone! Have that ever crossed your mind? To simply piss off?’

Vivi just shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said, making a heart-shaped smile. ‘Because you told me something that wise, I will give it back to you.’

‘I’m afraid to ask in what way…’ Yakov mumbled.

‘We’re going to play!’

‘And that’s supposed to be an ACT OF GRATITUDE?!’

‘Of course it is!’

‘I’m pretty fucking sure it is NOT!’

‘You’re mean. You don’t want to give me a chance to pay my debt back!’

‘Yeah, of course… a debt, my arse! Just admit you’re bored and you don’t know what to do with yourself!’

He expected the brat to stick with her own. That, just as all the clever girls, she would still try to convince him of her generosity (Lenka and Sonka enjoyed doing that exceptionally much).

To his surprise, the silver haired child wondered for a while, and then she smiled and said with as much honesty as there could be: ‘That’s right, I’m bored!’

For a moment, Yakov was just sitting and staring at the girl with a silly face. He just couldn’t figure out at all what that strange creature was all about. Having thirty years of coaching experience on his back, he managed to encounter a trillion of different, odd behaviours of the snort noses… but it was the first time he encountered THAT.

A total lack of shame.

A lack of any boundaries in terms of personal space.

A complete ignorance of the „fucks” being thrown.

An absolute resilience to murderous looks and raising voice.

Even one of these traits would be  _fucking_ problematic, leave alone all at once! Eventually Yakov came to the conclusion he didn’t feel like „figuring anyone out”. He was simply too tired! He didn’t feel like playing an analysis of a weird, little alien she was.

‘So you can stay bored,’ he snapped, laying down on the ice.

The kid didn’t let up. ‘But I don’t want to be bored.’ She was jabbing Feltsman’s belly with her finger. ‘I want to play! Let’s play a game! What would you like to play, Mister?’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Okay. How do we play „fuck off”?’

Yakov clenched his teeth. He was at the limit of his endurance.  _You’d better watch out I don’t teach you to play „beating the shit out of annoying little girls”,_ he wanted to say.

‘”Fuck off” means you’re supposed to go away and not come back.’

‘That’s a stupid game. Let’s play something else.’

‘No fucking way! I’m drunk, okay? Anyway… a fifty-year-old is not a good companion for a child! If you want to play, play with friends in your age.’

‘I don’t have friends. And I don’t like children my age. I like to play with adults more!’

Yakov, who was just preparing to give another roar, froze for a moment. He couldn’t just walk by some confessions. Especially when it was an eight year old child confessing.

„I don’t have friends.’

That feeling had to hurt.

Eh, the thing was, Feltsman was hurt too – way too many spots hurt him. His head and stomach were in the lead.

‘Okay, listen…’ Yakov spoke up in a resigned voice, ‘that’s sad you haven’t got friends and you’ve got no one to play with and so on… but I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m completely exhausted and drunk, and the unwillingness for getting my arse up overwhelmes the feelings of compassion for you, so just drop it and leave me alone.’

‘And what can I do to increase your seat’s willingness?’

‘FUCK, there’s nothing you can do! I’m tired, okay?! That was the worst week in my whole fucking life and I want to end it pitying myself.’

‘Pitying yourself and… waiting for a sign?’ the girl asked hesitantly.

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘And when you get the sign, you will play with me?’

‘And will you leave me alone until the sign appears?’

Vivi nodded enthusiastically.

 _Oh, fuck, finally!_  Feltsman’s thoughts groaned in relief.  _Halleluyah!_

‘Okay, then,’ Yakov muttered, closing his eyes. ‘When I get the sign, we’re going to play. And now, get lost!’

 _And it’s worth saying I’m not going to get any sign_ , he thought mockingly.  _The little smartass must know it as well. Eh, there’s no chance for her to simply leave! It would be just too beautiful…_

With a face expression like he’d been waiting for an air raid, he was waiting for the annoying girl’s retort. And when it didn’t come… he experienced the shock of the century! He opened his eyes carefully, looked around him and in shock realised that – oh my! – he was lying on the frozen pond, completely alone.

Jesus… so it was true! Oh, damn, so the miracles really happened! Oh, God… he couldn’t believe! He couldn’t believe the little girl actually… simply  _walked off_! God, he started to think he wouldn’t ever free himself from her. Thanks God… oh, fuck, thanks God!

Breathing out a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes to go back to having a nap on the ice surface. Oh, how amazing! Peace, at lea…

BANG!

Something hard hit him in the chest.

‘WHAT… where… who… how?! What the fu…’

A warning for the future: be careful what you say to small children.  _Especially_ if you got proof that all your words are taken  _literally_.

Of course the bloody kid wouldn’t leave Yakov alone. Of course she wouldn’t! He told her he was waiting for a sign, so… she got a bloody  _road sign_ and dragged it to the pond! And – what a surprise! – it was the same sign, the same fucking sign that Feltsman had broken several hours earlier. The inscription saying „CAUTION! Slippery road” seemed to be laughing at the temperamental fifty-year-old:  _See!_  it told Yakov,  _you’ve broken me, so now I got my revenge!_

‘Here you are, a sign!’ the child announced cheerfully. ‘And now you should play with me!’

Feltsman gave her a look of an old, battered horse forced to pull the cart by the driver.

‘Don’t look at me in such way,’ Vivi said, waving her finger in a punishing way. ‘The sign was already broken. It must’ve been by a vandal. Don’t make such a tired face on me, get up and play with me instead.  _You promised_!’

Damn! Unfortunately, she was right. Yakov would rather that to be quite different, but unfortunately the annoying little girl was  _right_! Let drunkness be drunkness, but an honour must stay how it is! A man shouldn’t break his word. And Feltsman  _was_ a man. After all, he was the only one to blame – next time he would remember not to flap his mouth without a second thought. Eh, fuck…

 _God, what sins am I paying for?_ he told the Creator while rising up from the ground.  _Is THAT your answer? Is that how it’s supposed to be? Tell me, what have I done?! Is that a form of atonement, or what? I’ve been yelling at innocent kids half of my life, so you’ve brought to me a creature immune to any possible kinds of rage?!_

Damn it, he should’ve listened his gut feeling… he should’ve run away the moment the silver haired nuisance stepped on the stage… he should’ve got into his car and locked himself! Yakov decided that that was what he would do. He wouldn’t stay any more time at the damn pond! The moment he keeps his end of the bloody bargain, he would go straight to his beloved Hondie! And until then… eh… unfortunately, he had to suffer.

‘So what are we going to play?’ Vivi asked with a smile.

_Something that won’t last long! Something I will be able to win in a split second!_

‘What about tag?’ Yakov suggested carefully.

‘Tag?’ the girl wondered for a while. ‘And who’s supposed to chase whom? Me you, or you me?’

‘Me you. And when I tag you, the game is over.’

The girl stood without a single move for some time and stared at the old man with a hard to read facial expression.

‘Listen, I’m really exhausted…’ Feltsman explained in a painful voice, ‘I just can’t pull out any more rounds, you get it?’

‘That’s not the problem.’

‘So what is?’

‘Well, I don’t know…’ Vivi stared at her fingernails, ‘wouldn’t you rather play something in which… well… you’d have  _some_ chance? Because, you know, if you don’t catch me, then the round will never end…’

Yakov raised his eyebrow. Has he just heard the girl suggesting him, he wouldn’t be able to catch her? That he wouldn’t? An Olympian wouldn’t catch some kid?

‘If you want, I can give you a head start,’ the girl suggested, massaging her chin with her thumb. ‘For example, I could skate only forward, so that it would be easier for you.’

 _Only forward, you say?_ the fifty-year-old mocked in his mind.  _Simply admit you can’t skate backwards!_

It’s high time he brought that arrogant kid back to Earth. ‘Let’s set the record straight, you little Brainy Smurf.’ Feltsman rested his hands on his knees, so that his eyes would be on the same level as Vivi’s. ‘I’ve been skating longer than you live. Even longer than your parents do. Maybe I would get bashed by kids in volleyball, basketball or another dodgeball, but nothing will give me head starts at skating.  _Do you understand_?’ he finished in a gloomy voice.

The kid’s reaction was quite different to what he suspected it to be. A shimmer of seriousness appeared in the blue eyes, and the small face got an expression that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else – the expression of awaking competitive spirit. The energy oozing from Vivi’s body became so strong it was almost contagious. Feltsman’s heart, against its owner’s will, shivered in excitement.

It might’ve been just his imagination, but Yakov felt that for a second – really, a second! – he could see a violet glimmer surrounding the girl. The same that Tatyana used to have once.

‘Okaaay.’ The kid put her hand into her pocket and fished out a blue hairband. ‘If that’s how you see it, then I’ll take you seriously.’

Tiny hands tied her hair into a ponytail.

‘Oh, I’m so fucking grateful!’ the fifty-year-old coach snorted, folding his arms. ‘I’m so much moved by your  _seriousness_ , I’m basically shaking in my boots out of fear!’

Vivi froze for a moment. At last, her small hands let the tied hair fall on her back. Her blue eyes shone out of excitement.

‘I’ll give you some more motivation!’ the girl said, winking at Yakov. ‘If you manage to impress me, I’ll give you my grandpa’s keychain.’

Yakov rolled his eyes and one second later he rushed towards his opponent. Giggling, Vivi jumped back. The game is on!

Nothing went as planned. Feltsman expected he’d catch the sneaky nymph in just few fast steps… but almost instantly he understood how wrong he was. The brat could skate backwards, indeed – and she could do it fucking great! Seeing how the hokey blades cut through the ice surface, Yakov’s eyes almost popped out.

 _Oh damn, so it IS possible to skate like this?!_ he thought, overwhelmed.

The thin legs resembled two speeding brushes – painting chaotic patterns on the ice, turning, stopping, then again speeding up and sneak out of the quite out of breath fifty-year-old’s reach.

Yakov had no idea what the fuck was happening, but there were only two options: either the alcohol did what it was supposed to and made everything seem two times faster than in reality… or Vivi could skate better than any other eight-year-old child. Or even a ten-year-old. Maybe even a  _twelve-year-old_?! Fuck… giving that second thought, Feltsma knew several  _twenty-year-olds_  who should have a look at that girl’s edges and take bloody notes! That was fucking inconceivable!

A part of the experienced coach wanted to interrupt the game, stop and ask some questions. Such as: „How is it possible you can move in that way?”  
„How on Earth can you change the skating direction on one leg without any effort at eight years of age?”  
„Why do I have to shout at my students to make them stop pretending they’re bloody aeroplanes and not wave their arms when skating backwards, when you’re skating backwards with your hands  _behind your back_ , smiling at me mockingly?!”

Yakov might’ve actually asked all of these. If not for that smiling face.

That weird kid might’ve had the skills of an alien, but most importantly, she had a natural talent for pissing Feltsman. The fifty-year-old had respect for the young skater, but he was even more angry and frustrated: not only about the goofy smirk of the brat, but also about his own drunk mind.

Damn it, if only he hadn’t drunk so much… if only he hadn’t let Tatyana convince him! Maybe he could’ve moved more quickly and finish that fucking game in a few minutes?

But, unfortunately – he had to deal with whatever circumstances there were. After several minutes, Feltsman didn’t have a label saying „winner”. He had the label saying „retirement centre”. With hands on his knees and sweat leaking from his chin, he was breathing heavily as if he’d run a marathon. The fairy approached him with a disappointed expression.

‘Oh, my, my…’ she chucked, placing her finger on her chin and keeping the tip of the right blade up daringly. ‘I think you won’t catch me, after all… well then! There’s no alternative! I’m going to get my tape player.’

 _Tape player?!_ Yakov’s mind growled,  _a tape player?! I need an INHALER!_

Vivi started to search a backpack laying by the pond. ‘If you can’t play tag, we’re going to play another game,’ she explained with a smile.

 _WHAT?!_ Feltsman Felt like he’d been going to pass out.  _Another game? Fuck, does she want me to get a stroke?!_

The girl pulled the tape player out. Well, well… granny Luba didn’t skimp on resources! First-rate gear! Small enough to fit into a backpack, and at the same time decent enough to blow ears of a drunk man.

The speakers sung a song by Bonnie Tyler, „Holding out for a hero”.

‘Let’s have a dance-off!’ Vivi shouted.

Oh, fuck.

Just when Yakov started to think it couldn’t have been worse… damn it, a man should never think so! Why…  _why_ always when you think that God won’t treat you with anything worse, the Creator must act like a complete dickhead and drop another bloody bomb on you?!

 _„Holding out for a hero”?_ Yakov thought, laughing bitterly.  _What an irony… I’ve already got a headache, and now I got reminded of the bet! Eh, it’s not a secret, I could really use a hero. Preferably one as in that bloody song! Strong, fast and sure! Someone like…_

‘Why are you still standing like that? Come on, let’s dance!’

Feltsman, being interrupted on a deep thought, raised his head and saw the girl taking off her hair band. Her silver hair, released from the tight embrace, was waving behind Vivi like Superman’s cape!

For another time that day – or rather, that night – Yakov felt completely overwhelmed. He’d organised loads of performances of ice dancing brats. He’d also watched his novices fooling around accompanied by music – performing a range of weird elements with all mirth no matter, only to wave with their arms and have some fun.

And what Vivi was doing… for some reason he couldn’t have them classified! The girl was improvising, that was for sure, but it wasn’t in the same way as most little skaters would do. Her movements were so interesting and she was synchronised with the music so well that at some moments she might’ve seemed to be a professional!

Amongst novices that Yakov knew, only Lyov could skate that prettily. With some subtle differences – young Rykov was more concentrated and stressful. While Vivi’s face emanated only with wild joy. Sudden turns, hops, lunges and steps were a perfect combination of creativity and a simple, childish silliness.

Perhaps Bonnie Tyler herself wouldn’t mind if that kid’s antics were recorded for a music video for her song.

A thought sprouted in Feltsman’s mind:  _What if… that girl was given figure skates?_

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to give his idea a second thought, as at the exact moment the girl grabbed his hands and started spinning together with him.

‘Come on!’ she shouted, laughing loud; ‘it’s a dance-off! You’ve got to dance!’

And then, she let him go without saying a word. Yakov, taken aback quite so, lost his balance and hit the ice with his butt.

Vivi stopped dancing immediately. When Feltsman was trying to get up, she skated towards him and shaking her head, said the striking words: ‘My grandpa was sixty years old and he could skate better than you can. Eh, what a pity you have to be a loser who surrenders before even trying to fight. I mean it… unless you’re persistent, you won’t learn to skate ever.’

She stopped smiling when she saw Yakov’s face. Cos right then the fifty-year-old coach decided that THAT WAS THE LAST STRAW! The girl’s words made him sober up in eighty percent and exceptionally  _enraged_.

Well, screw the headache… screw the nausea… screw everything! Nobody would ever tell him that he can’t fucking skate!

 _I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood!_  Bonnie Tyler sang.

Oooh, yeah, Feltsman could very well feel the fire in his blood… oh, yes, how bloody good he could feel it!

_Like a fire in my blood… like a fire in my blood… like a fire in blood… like a fire… aaah!_

‘ENOUGH!’

_I need a hero!_

With Vivi watching him, shocked, Yakov Feltsman started to dance.

The fifty-year-old veteran had no idea how he was able to do that, but somehow he managed to find the combative, twenty-year-old version of himself, and then he ordered it to move its fucking arse and come out from the very depths of his mind. And then… oooh, that’s when it all started for real!

A sequence of steps… taking off his coat theatrically… using a stick as a microphone… and finally, a flying sit spin! Spinning on his axis, Yakov held the piece of wood right by his mouth while singing out loud. He heard an awed child’s squeak somewhere in the background.

 _And what are you going to say now, little weasel?_ He thought thriumphantly.  _Feeling silly? Grey? You’ll see what I’m fucking able to do!_

During the next „I need a hero!” he took off for a double toe loop. When he landed clean, encouraged by his own success, he dared to attempt a double Salchow as well. And for a dessert, a double Lutz! Cos what fucking sort of harm could it do?

‘Gosh, that was so amaaazing!’ Vivi whined.

She was so amazed by what Feltsman had done that she completely gave up the dancing. Hopping in one place, she didn’t stop clapping for a single moment.

And that was when it happened.

Right then came the moment when twenty percent of Yakov… that unfortunate twenty drunk percent started to give the dancing man some stupid ideas. Or rather one. One stupid idea. Or rather it should’ve been called – as the embarrassed fifty-year-old concluded the next day – a completely  _irrational_ , fucking  _dangerous_ and  _absolutely messed up_ idea.

_Why wouldn’t I try a triple Axel?_

_Yes, yes!_ the alcohol encouraged him,  _come on, do it! Why would you limit yourself? Just think about how that little kid’s jaw will drop when you do something that great!_

Excited by the thought, Feltsman speeded up and took off. He was halfway through the first revolution when he remembered a certain  _important detail._

_Hold on… but I can’t land the triple Axel? OH, HOLY SHIT, I really CANNOT land the triple Axel! I couldn’t land it even as a competitive skater, cos back then to be quite honest no one could, and by the way I’m fifty years old, and of course I go to the gym and so on, but I still weigh almost two hundred pounds, and, damn, oh God, fuck, have I gone completely mad, no, it’s fucking impossible, I’m going to kill myself at a bloody pond, and I haven’t even WRITE MY WILL YET!!!_

He had no idea how many rotations he’d managed to do. He didn’t even think about that. The moment he his the ice with his arse emptied his head of  _whatever thoughts that could’ve been there._ With one exception:  _Oh, fuck, how it HURTS!_

He had no time to get himself all together after the fall, as Vivi jumped onto his knees and started to yank him, holding his sweater’s halves.

‘Jeeeez, it was so cool!’ she screamed, looking at Yakov with her eyes full of awe. ‘What was that? How have you managed to do that? First, you were like shooo, puff, then wham! Oh, pleeease, teach me how to do that!’

She was babbling like a little automatic rifle, after each word shaking Feltsman’s body like with a rag doll. When she noticed the man wasn’t responding, she tipped her head.

‘Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you alright? Do you need help with standing up?’

‘No, mummy, you don’t have to make Strogonov…’ Yakov mumbled with a goofy smile of a junkie, ‘…pierogis would be just fine.’

After saying these words, he passed out.

He woke up after about five minutes. At least it felt like that, as he wasn’t sure how much time had exactly passed. Someone was pulling his ears.

‘Hellooo, are you there?’ the silver haired pixie sang. ‘Mister? Misteeer? When are you going to… oh! You’re up, finally!’

_God, when will it finally end?_

‘God damn it, stop pulling my ears!’ Yakov hissed, ‘and get off my knees at once!’

Thanks God, the kid did what she was told to. Oh, and it seemed like the bloody music stopped. Oh, God… at least that!

Grunting, Feltsman forced his painful body to get up from the ice. He felt like he’d been run over by a tank.

 _Not a big tank_ , he thought, looking at Vivi with murderous eyes.  _A tiny, annoying, silver-haired tank! Damn, I’m so full of all of this! I’m going back to my car!_

‘Jeez, that jump of yours was sooo cool!’ the girl said in a dreamy voice. ‘Will you teach me how to do that?’

‘Yeah, I can’t fucking wait to do that,’ Yakov blurted out, picking his coat up.

‘Yaaay! So, when are we going to start?’

‘Never.’

‘Huh? Never?’

‘I’m not going to teach you anything.’

‘Why?’

‘Because no!’

‘But, pretty please…’

‘No means NO!’

‘Uh, you leave me no choice! I’m going to use my weapon of mass destruction on you!’

Feltsman, being in the middle of putting his coat on, blinked in shock.  _Weapon of mass destruction? What the hell is a weapon of mass destruction?!_

The girl took a deep breath, and then, she covered her mouth. When she moved her hand away, Yakov was hit with a weapon… which turned out to be „puppy eyes”.

‘Pleeease, will you teach me?’ Vivi whined.

The fifty-year-old man gave her an ice-cold look.

‘Huh?’ The girl tipped her head, confused. ‘It didn’t work? Odd…’

‘I deal with things much worse than your „weapon of mass destruction”.’ Yakov shook his head, giving a sigh. ‘I’ve been dealing with little, tricky girls like you for thirty years. And  _that’s why_ I’m NOT going to teach you! I’m just done with women, you get it?! Don’t get me wrong, love, I’m not a chauvinist or anything like that… I don’t have any problem with you either, even though thanks to your bloody dance-off I fell down and almost lost my life… and, that can’t be hidden, throughout my whole career I’ve never met any girl with such fucked up personality as yours… but all right, I don’t have any problem with you. Maybe if I wasn’t drunk I would’ve said you’re a nice child. But as a matter of fact, I  _am_ drunk, and my arse hurts, and I’m fed up with everything, especially with my annoying skaters who managed to piss me off to a maximum today, so for the next ten years I intend to keep away from anybody who’s got tits! I played a game with you, I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and now I’m going to my car to have a nap, ‘cause after all I’ve been through I should be allowed to get some fucking sleep!’

Well! So much of his talking. He didn’t want to spend any more time at the pond. Just… just when he was to turn around and walk away, when Vivi declared: ‘Mister… but I’m not a girl, I’m a  _boy_.’

Yakov stopped in half a step. He was sure he overheard.

‘I’m sorry, you are who?’ he asked.

‘A boy.’

‘A boy?!’

‘Mhm.’

It was a joke, right? Something like these onanists and penisists?

Feltsman had a closer look at the silver-haired child… a very,  _very_ close look. Huge, blue eyes, thick eyelashes, cute face… pfft! No, no fucking chance.

‘A boy, right?’ the fifty-year-old said in a pitying voice. ‘Yeah. You wish!’

‘But I’m telling the truth.’ The girl tilted her head. ‘Do you want me to prove it?’

‘How? You’ll wear a wig and glue a moustache?’

A ten-year-old Sonya did something like that once as well – hoping she’d manage to get to the men’s locker room in that way. Ah, the childish folly.

‘You, my dear annoying lady, can be a  _tomboy_ at the very best, but certainly not a boy,’ Yakov mumbled. ‘I’ve been dealing with women all my life and I can smell estragon from a mile away! As a busty monsters specialist I declare there is no… not even a  _slightest_ chance for me to believe such a sweet creature like you is a…’

The sweet creature took its pants off and shouted „Tah duh!” with its arms opened cheerfully.

‘For… God’s… fucking… SAAAAAAAKE!’

The roar of (at that moment completely sober) Feltsman spread all over the area. The birds rose from branches, and a scared to death squirrel jumped out of bushes ran away up on a tree. The silver-haired boy only blinked.

‘Why are you so hysterical? You’ve never seen a willy?’

‘ARE YOU COMPLETELY FUCKED UP?!’

‘You can yell so loud. Could you scream loud enough to make glass break?’

‘My vocal chords’ abilities should be the last of your concerns right now! Who would ever walk in front of a stranger with a bare arse?! Do you want someone to take me for a paedophile and put in custody?! Put your pants on at once!’

Vivi put his trousers on as he’d been told to… but it didn’t change much, as the harm to Yakov’s mind had already been done.

For fuck’s sake, Feltsman should’ve written a book entitled „Five steps of getting sober”. He’d give an instruction with these exact steps:

First – listen to an eight-year-old kid calling you an „onanist”.

Second – confess you need to take a piss, encouraging the said kid to try to take your pants off.

Third – let the child teach you that the quickest road to happiness is by watching porn.

Fourth – get angry when the little brat with ADHD suggests you can’t skate.

Fifth – find out that the annoying creature you believed to be a fucked up little girl is, in fact, a fucked up little boy who takes his pants off without any warning and treats strangers with the view of his todger.

The dangling proof of having a Y chromosome was transferred to the very same chamber in Yakov’s mind where the posters incident had been put. It was a chamber reserved for the most traumatic events… for completely messed up incidents and just so messed up people. The fifty-year-old didn’t think he’d ever place something in that chamber ever again. He was sure of that, until he’d met the silver-haired lad. And now, for some reason, he got a feeling that the said chamber would soon get filled up to the brim!

 _But, hold on a little, where did that idea come from?_ Feltsman thought nervously.  _Why would there be more of such incidents? It’s not like I’m going to meet that kid ever again… is it?_

‘You’re so hypersensitive…’ the boy stated.

Yakov snorted loudly. He opened his mouth to talk back, but Vivi interrupted him.

‘… but you’re definitely not a loser! I take back that thing i said before. You’re a real soldier! I’m glad you played together with me! I hadn’t been so lucky since the last time I skated with grandpa.’

Feltsman’s eyes widened. The annoyed fifty-year-old suddenly forgot all the insults he wanted to throw at that peculiar brat. With surprise, he realised he wasn’t able to utter a single word. He just stood there without a move, like a statue, and observed the boy as he searched his backpack. At some point he found what he was looking for.

‘Here you are, you deserve that!’ he said, giving Yakov a keychain.

The man’s hand reached for the prize by itself. The words „I hate romances. Porn rocks!” were flashing on a golden background.

Well… a golden keychain is not the same as a gold medal… and there was nothing big in statement „you’re a real soldier”, but…

But Feltsman felt devilishly good with all that. And not only good. He also felt proud in some way, for making that weird kid happy. It helped him find something new in himself. Something new, but at the same time old, familiar… something he used to have when he was skating with Tatyana, and then he started to lose in result of many different events. Relatives’ death, the divorce, the en of his work with Max… ah, especially the case with Max.

Yakov wasn’t entirely sure what it was – the thing or trait he gained back – but he was glad he had it again. Actually… suddenly he realised there were also other things that made him happy.

He was happy he got drawn into a dance-off. He was glad he got provoked. He was glad of that stupid attempt in jumping a triple Axel. For hell’s sake, in some way he was also glad about having his arse bruised!

Eh, that was probably because the pain around the coccyx brought so many memories…

Being a competitive skater. The hellish practices. The fierce fight. The rivalry! The thought you cannot give up!

Yakov Feltsman all of the sudden understood why he got dragged into the bet with Vronkov. Why he got dragged into the bet with Vronkov  _for real_! It wasn’t just about the rink… it was also about feeling all these things again. Yakov’s soul – resembling a dead one after the divorce – needed to feel alive!

And now, it actually did. But not thanks to friends, work, or even the risky bet. Thanks to an encounter with the peculiar silver haired lad – who was probably the strangest kid that walked this world.

‘Vivi…’ Yakov whispered, gazing at the keychain. ‘What sort of name is that for a boy?’

‘I’m not really called Vivi.’

Feltsman sent the kid a questioning look. The boy grinned.

‘I told you, it’s only my grandma who calls me that. Actually, I’m called…’

‘VIKTOR!’

The fifty-year-old and his little companion jumped. They could hear barking in the distance. In a moment, two large dogs ran towards the bank of the pond – a fierce-looking, long-haired German shepherd and just so impressing Moscow watchdog.

‘Don’t get any closer to them,’ Yakov warned the boy. ‘Be careful so they wont bi… HEY!’

Ignoring the warnings, Viktor skated towards the dogs… who apparently knew him very well. When he got near enough to their muzzles, they turned him over to his back and started to lick his face. The boy kissed the first, and then the second wet nose, giggling.

‘Did you miss me?’ he asked in a caring voice. ‘I missed you, too. Here, here… good dog!’

The fluffy tails kept wagging happily. Giving a sigh, Viktor hugged the shepherd and nudged his face into its hairy neck. The boy’s free hand petted the watchdog’s muzzle. The picture seemed bloody sweet to Feltsman.

But the cuddling didn’t last so long. A whistle came from the top of the hill, and then some man shouted in a military voice: ‘Muna! Bismark! Come!’

With visible reluctance the dogs glued off from Viktor and ran up the hill. Yakov looked there. His white Honda wasn’t the only car parked on the shoulder – now it had a company of an ugly, old Volvo. Between the two cars there was a scary looking man, standing with his arms folded and in a company of an exceptionally beautiful woman. Feltsman couldn’t see the two quite well, but he figured out easily they were the little devil’s parents. And – what was quite remarkable – they  _actually_ looked a bit like Father Frost and Spring the Beauty.

The well-build, short-haired bloke with Sean Connery style beard – but without the moustache – gave an impression of a calculating man who’d easily put people on their place . He completely didn’t match his slim, long-haired wife. With a smile from ear to ear, the woman had a veil of unspoilt happiness surrounding her. Despite the temperature being below zero Celsius, she was wearing a skirt and at least eight inches high stilettos. She look like nothing could spoil her good mood… just like Spring the Beauty! Although Yakov could remember her name was Anastasia.

Even the voice she used to call her son made him think of a field of flowers. ‘Vitya! Honey, come home at last!’

‘Five minutes!’ the boy yelled back.

‘Vitya… you had enough skating for today. You don’t want to spend the night here, hmm? If I can’t kiss you goodnight, I’ll be veeery sad!’

Yeees… and it became clear that she was a professional actress. She pronounced every syllable very characteristically – like she’d got used to chanting the text. She was also clever enough to smuggle a good amount of mother’s drama into the last sentence. But her son didn’t let her full his leg.

‘I’m coming!’ he yelled. ‘Just a moment!’

‘Oh, your toys will be sooo lonely without you, you knooow?’ the woman sang with pretended sadness.

Viktor completely ignored her. Instead, he turned to Feltsman. He was just opening his mouth to say something, but then the sweet mother’s pleas were replaced by the father’s harsh order.

'VIKTOR! If you don't get your skinny arse here  _at once_ , then I'll have to go there and get you, and you'd rather I don't fuckin' do that, cos if you force me I'll take scissors with me and I'll have no mercy... d'you fuckin' get what I'm sayin'?!'

A spark of fear appeared in the kid's eyes.

'Okay, dad, I'm coming!'

 _Oh, heck, so it was that easy?_ Yakov thought, feeling like a complete idiot.  _Boy is scared of getting his hair cut? Eh, I should've thought of it! But, on the other hand... now I know why he was completely unimpressed by my „fucks"._

Viktor quickly took his skates off and put the shoes on. Grinning, he waved at Feltsman to say goodbye and with the backpack put on his shoulder, he ran towards his parents. When he was by the car, Anastasia started brushing his hair.

'Honey,' she said with a mix of careness and reprimand, 'I've told you  _so many times_ not to bother the homeless.'

'But that man isn't homeless, he's a penisist!' Vitya protested. 'And he's an amazing skater. Even better one than grandpa Viktor! And earlier, he did a suuuper cool jump! He was like, shooo, puff, then wham!'

'A penisist?' the woman repeated in surprise. 'Didn't you mean a ?'

'No. A penisist! And, you know, he did that cool...'

The boy stopped unexpectedly. With his face all serious, he was gazing at his dad. The strict man raised his eyebrows. 'What's the matter?' he mumbled.

Viktor sighed deeply. 'Dad, your scarf doesn't match your sweater. And you're wearing tracksuit trousers. If you were going to mum's performance, you could've dressed better.'

'I'm not a fuckin' woman and I'm going to dress how I like. I'm not goin' to act like a preppy fag only cos I'm goin' to the theatre.'

'Your father is a lost cause, Vitya,' Anastasia said, shaking her head. 'But don't worry... we don't have to admit knowing him in public.'

'For fuck's sake, woman! I told you to fuck off from my clothes!'

'We could meet halfway, Sasha.' With a sweet smile, the woman leaned over her husband's ear. 'I wouldn't mind you walking around  _naked_  all the time.'

Even from that long distance, Yakov noticed Sasha's cheeks going purple.

'H-how many times do I have to tell you not to bring up things like that!; Anastasia's husband hissed. 'And stop gropin' me in public!' He knocked his wife's hand off his buttocks angrily.

'What public? There's no one here.'

'No one, except for mister penisist!' Viktor highlighted.

'Uh... that's it!' Sasha mumbled. 'We're goin' home!'

The family consisting of three people and two pets goy in the Volvo. Before they drove away, he heard some pieces of talk from inside of the car:

'Dad, when I'm going to get my dog?'

'We've got two dogs,' he heard the grumpy answer.

'But they are yours and mummy's. When will I have my own dog?'

'Someday.'

'So when?'

'When you're older'

'When is that?'

'In a couple of years.'

'So how many years?'

'FOR HELL'S SAKE, VIKTOR! Don't distract me when I'm drivin'!'

To think that bloke had to take care of the silver haired source of chaos for almost twenty four hours per day… and how was he supposed not to sympathise with him? Yakov’s problems started to seem funny. Maybe it was a bit harsh for Feltsman, but at least he didn’t have to bring up a weird, little exhibitionist. He wouldn’t change places with that Sasha for  _any amount_! God, that man was really simply screwed!

To listen the annoying childish chirruping every day and deal with the horny wifey impulses! Who would like to have a life like that?!

 _You would,_ a voice in Yakov’s head whispered.

Feltsman’s cheeks covered with a red layer. The divorced man looked to the ground. He didn’t want to openly admit that deep inside he knew that in real, what he felt was not compassion, but  _jealousy_.

He peeked at the keychain reflecting the moonlight. To think about it, that kid… wasn’t that bad, after all.

 

****At present** **

‘Yakov? Yakov? Are you there?’

‘Yeah, I am.’ Feltsman’s hand moved some strands of hair falling on his forehead. ‘Listen, I’ll call you in the evening, okay? It’s bloody freezing in this car. If I stay in my place, I’ll turn into a popsicle.’

‘Fine. So, till the evening!’

Grunting, the man dug himself out of the car. He should call Pavlo later and set an appointment for . What a pity Kapustin had only a physiotherapy diploma. But anyway, after everything that happened at night, a psychiatrist could be not enough… some problems called for an exorcist only!

A couple of sparrows were chirping happily on a branch of a nearby spruce. The melting snow was dripping from the branches, revealing some buds ready to bloom. Through a tiny gap between the trees, a single ray of sunlight pierced in. The beam reflected in the golden keychain attached to Yakov’s key.

 _It seems like the bloke from the radio wasn’t lying, after all,_ Feltsman thought, looking at the lewd inscription.  _The thaw has really come._

He loosened his scarf and undid his coat. When the warm air tickled his neck, he suddenly felt incredibly relaxed and content.

Maybe it was thanks to the weather, maybe thanks to the encounter with that silver-haired weirdo… but it was the first time in a while when Yakov had a feeling that everything was going to be okay. That it would be what it would be. The battered by life coach saw the light finally. He was ready to face Vronkov.

But first, he had to change the tyre. Eh, that would be bloody annoying…

‘Oh? Hello again. How is your day?’

Yakov turned his head and saw the very same cyclist he’d met the day before. Today, the youngster gave up his hat – his red, thick hair waved, moved by the wind. The bicycle stopped by the Honda.

‘I had worse,’ the fifty-year-old mumbled, giving the flat tyre a hateful look.

‘And? Have you met the pixie?’

Feltsman shivered. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘He gave you a hard time, didn’t he?’ The boy grinned.

For some time, Yakov stood without moving, keeping his mouth pursed into a thin line. His pride was firmly against giving the details of yesterday’s Armaggedon.

‘A bit,’ he murmured finally. ‘Tell me, do you know that kid? He plays hockey, is that right?’

‘Well, yeah… why are you asking?’

‘No reason.’ Feltsman shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m just curious how he’d do with figure skates.’

‘Eh… what a pity you won’t ever find out.’

Yakov, being in the middle of digging a spare tyre out of his boot, froze for a moment. He looked at the youngster in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.

The cyclist put his forearms on the handlebars and shook his head. ‘I mean, that boy will probably never wear figure skates.’

 

 

xXx

 

*Father Frost – women change, so I suddenly decided Father Frost would be a better translation than Father Christmas. They’re basically the same, but Father Frost relates better to the original Russian term and Russian culture. I’ve changed the previous chapter as well, so if you’ve read it after the update, nothing changed.

*Nikolai Rozhdestvenski – Nikolai means Nicholas (in Poland Saint Nicholas (Święty Mikołaj) basically means the same as Santa Claus); Rozhdestvene means Christmas. Nicholas of Christmas is a literal translation.

*Snegurochka – the Snow Maiden, a character from Russian fairy tales, since Soviet times depicted as a granddaughter and helper of Ded Moroz [(Grand)Father Frost]. The play Vitya is talking about later is called ‘The Snow Maiden’, written by Alexander Ostrovski, with Tchaikovsky’s music.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s Note]
> 
> I’d like to thank all the amazing people who left comments (even the short, single-sentence ones). You helped me believe in myself :3
> 
> I’d also like to thank everyone (both registered users and guests) who clicked the heart icon and left kudos. Every time I see a new kudos, my heart starts beating faster. Thank you :3
> 
> See you next time!
> 
>  
> 
> [Translator’s Note]
> 
> It took me SO LONG to translate this part! I’m so, so, so, sorry. Things happened. Like, a lot of things. Hope the next part will be delivered to you faster… Next two weeks are going to be a huge marathon of skating competitions and I’m also having my prom in only a little over a week (and I still can’t dance, so there’s a huge probability my partner would kill me), but later I will have a little slot of something I would consider ‘a surprisingly large amount of free time’, and after that I’m going to have a two-week holidays at the time of Olympics – that’s quite a lot of time for working on the translation!
> 
> Oh, and by the way – if you were wondering who drew the pictures attached to the story – it’s Jora! And the banner telling you how long you need to wait for the next chapter’s translation is my job :D


	5. Chapter 4: Two sides to a coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each coin has two sides. Just like each person has more than one face… Yakov gets a chance to have a better look at little Viktor and his parents. What is his conclusion going to be?  
> Get to know the bitter-sweet story of Nikiforov family, told by teenage hockey players!

Looking at the skating rink in Novovladimirsk, there would be four adjectives of which one would think first: big, homey, unkempt and lovely. The red-brick building raising above the trees looked to Feltsman like an old market. The idea was brought to him by such things as the huge, divided with steel bars semicircle windows. If not for the „Snowy Neverland” inscription and an image of a bear wearing hockey gear, it would be a hard thing to guess it was possible to ice skate in the venue.

Yakov crawled out of his car. _It looks better than I thought,_ he concluded. _Well, let’s see what’s inside._

After crossing the glass door (being the only modern architectural element), he found a view of a plump receptionist, sitting with her feet at the tabletop and shoving a sandwich into her mouth. When she spotted Yakov, she instantly put her pink stillettos back on the floor. Smoothing her stained blouse with one hand and swiping her long, blond hair back with the other, she looked at the newcomer flirtatiously.

‘We don’t know each other yet, I suppose?’ she murmured in a sensual voice. ‘Are you here to enroll your son in the training session, hottie?’

‘I’ve got an appointment with the rink’s owner,’ Feltsman replied dismissively.

‘With Ol’ Pete?’ The woman reached out to grab a calendar.

Yakov raised his eyebrows. ‘I was sure the bloke’s name was Roman Petrov?’

‘That’s true,’ the receptionist giggled. ‘But ev’ryone calls him Ol’ Pete. Little wonder, he’s turning seventy next month, after all. Well, on the other hand… Niki came up with that nikname at least forty years ago.’

‘Niki?’

The blonde’s thumb pointed a black and white portrait hanging on the wall. The photo showed an about thirty-year-old man with light hair tied into a short ponytail. The mysterious fellow was horsing around, sticking his tongue out of his mouth and riding his hockey stick. The picture seemed oddly familiar to Feltsman. Yakov was sure he’d seen the man before, but he couldn’t remember where. He felt like it had happened not a while ago… and many years ago at the same time? No, that didn’t make sense…

‘Ol’ Pete will be here in two hours,’ the receptionist said. ‘You can wait for him with me… or go to the second floor, to a milk bar. I wouldn’t reccomend strogonov, but pierogies are quite fine.’

The fifty-year-old’s legs made their way towards the stairs by themselves. A flirty Barbie doll or pierogies? Of course the answer’s pierogies! Or, to be specific, tea. Since the last banquet’s bet Yakov had a bit of a trauma connected to pierogies. He also made a note to keep away from alcohol for the next _month_! Uh… after yesterday’s Instant Sobering Up he lost any appetite for vodka.

 _Tea_ , he decided. _Hot tea and a bit of silence. That’s all I need!_

Unfortunately, in the milk bar above the stands he found neither. The only drinks on the menu were soda and that horrific American invention, Coca Cola! For God’s sake… Feltsman couldn’t imagine how kids from his club could drink that black pitch! The good, old, communistic soda was one thing… but Cola?! It would be better to pour a bottle of chemicals into one’s throat – same thing!

As it turned out, not only the Champions’ Club kids fancied the drink from across the sea. The local youngsters longed for bad teeth as well. While the bored vendor was busy solving a crossword puzzle, a few young hockey players were having a heated discussion.

‘We should buy bottled Cola!’ said the brat standing the closest to the counter. ‘We can play bowling later.’

‘Bowling’s for babies, you dork!’ his friend snorted. ‘Let’s get canned! Cans are great to practice shooting.’

‘Yeah, it’s fun to shoot at them,’ another kid agreed. ‘Or, we can use them instead of pucks.’

‘Good one!’

‘I’ll have Cola Light,’ said a chubby boy devouring crisps. ‘Mummy said that it has very little caloryes!’

‘What’s calorions?’

‘It’s something that makes your belly grow.’

‘Hey, but let’s get at least one bottled Cola,’ the first brat quarreled. ‘The coach said that if we can play with a bottle cap, then it’s easier to control a puck.’

‘Yeah, but no one can hit the cap!’ the kid number two mumbled.

‘You-Know-Who can,’ the fatso cut in.

‘Voldemort?’

‘No, you dork. Rapunzel.’

‘Aaaah! Then say you mean Rapunzel, instead of using some effing code!’

‘And you say Rapunzel can hit a bottle cap?’

‘Yup, he can. But not with a stick, only with a skate.’

‘Uhh… just don’t tell him we’re playing football today! He’ll want to go with us, or something…’

‘Yup, and if he asks when the coach is around, we can’t say „no”.’

‘Exactly! Go and buy that Cola quicly, cause if the coach sees…’

‘HEY, YOU THERE!’

The group of kids whined at the same time. The voice was so similar to his own, that for a moment Yakov expected to see a copy of himself. But no – after looking at the ice, Feltsman saw a tall man with a beard and short, silver hair. The bloke was about thirty years old and… WAIT A MINUTE! Wasn’t that the father of that kid from yesterday?!

 _That’s him_ , Yakov decided after a moment. _He’s got the same red scarf. What was his name? Ah, Sasha._

‘Are you drinkin’ Cola before the training session?!’ the man rumbled, keeping his hands on his hips. ‘And what d’you think, that I’ll be doin’ breaks every five minutes to let someone go to the toilet?! On the ice!’

Influenced by the narrow, blue eyes’ threatening look, the boys shivered in fear. ‘We were just having a look at the prices, coach!’

‘We’re coming!’

Felstman whistled quietly. The efficiency Sasha made his students come to his leg with caused him to feel both admiration and jealousy. _He got them to do what he said in less than three seconds, which makes it a whole second faster than me. I didn’t believe it was even possible._

Really… the pups were trained masterfully! The small fatso rushed downstairs so quickly he forgot to take the crisps with him! At the moment, he was sitting on a bench and putting his ice skates on together with several other ones.

When the runts started to jump on the ice one by one, Sasha leant on the bord with his forearm and started moving his mouth soundlessly. He must’ve been counting. And apparently something was wrong about the count, as after a while he flinched and started turning his head in every direction. Yakov did the same. He had a _perfect_ idea who to look for. If it was a training session for eight, ten-year-old kids, then somewhere around should loither that little, deviant…

‘Why are you so grim, love?’

_Oh, here he is! Bingo!_

The search for the characteristic, silver ponytail didn’t last long. Little Viktor was sitting on the bench and keeping his leg high in an elegant way, letting his mother tie his laces. Feltsman snorted quietly.

 _Half of my students at his age are embarrassed of even SHOWING themselves around their parents, let alone let their mummy or daddy tie their laces,_ he thought. _If I was eight years old and something like that happened, I would wear a corton box on my head for at least a MONTH!_

But the fair-haired little devil apparently had no problem with that. Or he didn’t hear his friends’ catty chuckles, or decided to ignore them. He looked like a real, little prince, caring not even a bit for the whole world. Eh, several hundred years ago he probably really would’ve been mistaken for a prince – or another noble child. He only lacked a crown and appropriate clothes. His mother, Anastasia, could pass for a princess as well. While Sasha could be a stable boy at best…

Yakov walked towards the railing and leaned his forearms on the metal bar. He’d seen the pixie and his parent the day before, but only today, in the bright day’s light, he had a chance to get a batter look at them.

Apart from his silver hair and skates on his feet, Viktor barely had anything in commor with his fatcher. Starting with the beautiful hands and finishing on his sweet face, elegant chin and pretty, upturned nose, the boy was a perfect copy of his mother.

The mother who apparently was the town’s belle, as every man’s gathered on the stadium look was fixed on her. Even Feltsman had to admit she was pretty – and he’d seen many comely ladies in his life! Maybe if he wasn’t completely unmoved by the charms of the fairer sex, and his sexual appetite wasn’t focused on only one individual, namely his ex-wife, he could – just as the little hockey players’ daddies – drool at the sight of the thick, blond hair, perfect silhoette and long eyelashes of Anastasia.

Luckily, he stayed unmoved… as everything indicated that having a meek crush on Viktor’s mother could cost a life. Sasha’s eyes fixed on the stands expressed no more and no less than a will to murder all of his wife’s suitors. Most lovehawks wisely evacuated from the building.

‘What’s up with that sad face?’ Anastasia talked to her son again. ‘Come on, tell your mummy! What’s bothering you, darling?’

‘Anya hit my cheek today!’ Viktor complained.

‘Oh, really? But why?’

The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I only told her a compliment! When she kissed me, I told her she is a much better kisser that Ira, Katya and Sveta. Instead of being happy I complimented her, she hit my face. How could she? I only tried to be nice!’

The man standing in the audience and the woman kneeling in front of her child both snorted. The difference was that Yakov laughed in resignation, while Anastasia – in awe.

‘Girls get jealous very easy, My Gold,’ she said while lifting the other skate. The hands crowned with manicured nails tied the laces with an outstanding grace.

‘When kissing someone, every girl wants to feel special,’ the boy’s mother continued. ‘You shouldn’t have admitted you’d kissed someone else. At least not just after you’ve kissed her. Anya most likely thought that kissing someone is a game for you.’

‘It’s not a game, it’s training!’ Viktor said in an earnest voice. ‘Granny said that if I don’t practice, that then, when I meet the love of my life, I’ll make myself look like a bumpkin.’

‘When you love someone, you don’t care if they’re bumpkinish.’ Anastasia’s eyes started to look all dreamy. ‘Your dad didn’t even know how to French kiss when we started going out. And he was pretty angry when I told him that I’d „trained” with many boys before him. People tend to react like that.’

‘If everyone’s going to be angry at me, then I won’t kiss anyone else!’ the boy muttered, cocking up his nose angrily.

‘Oh?’ The woman tilted her head. ‘So you won’t play Kisses with your mummy anymore?’

A beam of excitement appeared in the child’s eyes. ‘If I guess everything right, will I get the Kissy Whirl?’

‘Of course!’ Anastasia winked at her son.

‘Great, let’s play then!’

‘Okaaay… so, how do the French kiss to say hello?’

Just as a beret-wearing Froggy would, Viktor kissed her mother three times – on one cheek, and on the other.

‘Excellent! And how do the Eskimo kiss?’

The boy stroked her mother’s nose with his several times.

‘Perfect! And how does a seal kiss?

Mimicking the sea mammal, the silverhaired creature pressed its lips against Anastasia’s several times with a loud, smacking sound.

‘Bravo! A Kissyyy Whiiirl!

The woman brethed out against her son’s neck, making a loud, farting sound. Viktor giggled in awe. His happy face was a contrast to the gloomy visage of Sasha, who was watching the whole situation.

‘Tasya!’

Hearing the husband’s angry murmur, the blonde beauty moved away from her son. The man wrang his hands.

‘ _For God’s sake!_ ’ he hissed.

Yakov had no problem imagining what the guy was thinking. It must’ve been something like: _Bloody hell, I’m to hold a training session in a moment, and you’re putting on your kissing show; on top of that, while our son’s friends are looking!_

Sasha had his front turned away from the rink, but he surely was aware of the dismissive looks focused on the silverhaired boy. Experienced coaches _always_ could see such things. Even without looking. And the weariness hidden in the man’s eyes indicated that he indeed _was_ an experienced coach. Feltsman had no doubts for that – he could regularly see those eyes in his own mirror.

The two culprits walked towards the rink board. The father treated his child to a cold look, with his eyebrows risen up. ‘Viktor, how old are you?’

‘Why are you asking?’ The young boy tilted his head. ‘I thought you’ve conceived me.’

‘Don’t talk back, answer me!’ Sasha snapped.

‘Eight and a half.’

‘And? You can’t tie your own laces?’

‘I can, but mum does it better.’

The man’s lips narrowed into a thin line. Viktor wondered for a second, and then patted his father’s back with a carefree smile. ‘She can tie yours as well,’ he said happily. ‘She’s your wife. If you ask her nicely, she’ll say yes for sure.’

In Yakov’s opinion, the man should get a special award – only for not throwing the annoying sprig out of the window. If he were in his boots, Feltsman would be at the edge of a mental breakdown.

‘Don’t be so hysterical, Sasha,’ Anastasia said flirtatiously. ‘You should play with us instead of complaining.’

‘No way!’

‘Eh, and what am I to do, Vitya? Outside of the bedroom, you father is sooo shy…’

‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE, _I am not_ shy!’ Sasha’s cheeks were red as a torreador’s rag. ‘I’ve told you not to say such things in public! Go to the stands and don’t interrupt the training. And you, Viktor, get on the ice!’

‘Okay, dad.’

‘Not „dad”, but „coach”! _How many times_ do I have to repeat that?! At this rink I’m not your father, but your _coach_. Is that clear?!’

‘Yes, coach.’ The boy rolled his eyes.

‘Wear a helmet.’

‘But I don’t like the helmet.’

‘I don’t give a damn! Put the helmet on!’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Cos when I take the scissors…’

‘Okay, I’ll just take a helmet!’

‘Oh, Sasha, but these helmets’ colour is so _ugly_! Is there really no chance of you getting something prettier?’

While the family had a lovely time quarreling, Yakov wondered how it would’ve been if he and Lilia had decided for such future. For literally a minute – one, short minute – he let his imagination wander in areas he’d usually keep shielded with an iron wall.

A family – how would it have been to actually have it? A real, consisting of parents and children, family.

 _Me and Lilia would’ve kept fighting,_ Yakov figured out, _over bollocks. Just like that bloke with his wifey._

But it wouldn’t have been bad fights, just those… well… sweet, meaningless fights. Meaning little, and meaning everything all at once. These would’ve been… brick-fights that would make a happy home. The first one could’ve been about Yakov dressing badly, the another about Lilia leaving the car with light on and discharging the car’s battery.

 _We used to fight over that,_ Feltsman remembered. _Why had we stopped?_

Maybe it was because after all the misfortunes had gotten to them, they hadn’t had the third member of their family who would’ve treaten their relationship with some healthy servings of chaos and balance? They hadn’t had a little creature who would’ve work like glue putting them back into one. In fact… their last „nice” quarrel as a married couple was related to that exact thing – the said creature’s gender. The skates and the ballet shoes.

Yakov shook his head.

He just intended to go to the bar and ask the vendor if he had any alternative besides the poor strogonov and the good (but overrated) pierogies, but then, he saw a couple of youngsters leaning on the railing. They were sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. Whispering something between the two of them, they were watching a black-haired girl sitting in the audience. And there would’ve been nothing odd to that, if not for the fact that one of them was carelessly _sipping vodka from a flask_!

Feltsman felt an educational instinct waking up in him. ‘YOU LITTLE SHIT!’ he yelled at the punk without a word of warning. ‘What the hell are you thinking?! You thought that if you drink in a place like that, no one’s going to catch you?! I’ll figure out who your father is and you’ll get your arse whupped!’

A cap owner stopped talking to his friend with a crew cut and smiled to Yakov. ‘Oh my, like I’d been listening to coach Sasha!’ He winked at the fifty-year-old. ‘Ease up. It’s just tea.’

‘Tea, you’re saying?’ Feltsman had hard time believing his words. ‘And that’s why you’re drinking it out of a flask?’

‘Dmitri’s always having it like that,’ the culprit’s friend said with a grin. ‘He pretends it’s vodka to impress the ladies.’

‘Come on, have a sip.’ Dmitri passed the flask to Yakov.

Keeping his suspicious look fixed on the amused teens, the old coach first smelled the bottle, and then took a sip. Feeling a lukewarm liquid on his tongue, he flinched. ‘It’s too sweet,’ he mumbled, giving the beverage back to its owner. ‘I’m still watching you, brat! I’ll walk over to the liquor store later and ask for you there!’

The youngsters exchanged looks, and after that they burst in laughter.

‘You’ve heard that, Borya? He repeated coach Sasha’s saying in exact. Word for word!’

‘Are you two related?’ Borya asked Yakov.

‘No, we’re not.’

‘Eh, just when I thought…’

‘You’ve got the same malicious face expression as our coach!’

‘It’s not malice, it’s concern!’ Feltsman snapped without giving it a second thought.

He expected a dissmissive eye rolling, but much to his surprise, he saw two mild smiles.

‘Yeah, we know.’ Dmitri sighed, peering at the warming-up kids in the corner of his eye. ‘Coach Sasha is really concerned about everyone.’

‘We keep complaining about him, but we know well he’s only shouting at us for our own good,’ Borya added. ‘He’s an amazing coach. I’d trust him with my life.’

Yakov’s eyes widened. _„I’d trust him with my life”!_ he thought, looking away. _What sort of line is that? Like taken straight out of a sci-fi film! Or that book about that four-eyed idiot fighting Lord Vol-whatever! On the other hand…_

‘It was bloody nice,’ he said out loud. ‘Saying something like that about your own coach…’

‘I was totally honest,’ Borya said without a hint of lie. ‘I really think that.’

‘And so do I.’ Dmitri nodded his head with a serious face expression. ‘Coach Sasha is an amazing teacher and a great man. Each of his students would tell you the same. Even the kids like him. They give him birthday cards every year. Each one of them!’

 _Well, well,_ Yakov sighed in his mind. _I get those only from the girls. Deviant, smelling of perfumes birthday cards. The damn snorts got this habit from Tatyana…_

‘The kids’ parents also think highly of Mister Sasha,’ the boy with the crew cut continued, rubbing his chin with his thumb. ‘They don’t even mind him yelling at their children. They know he knows what he’s doing.’

Eh, it all started to sound like some Coaching El Dorado! And there really wasn’t any catch hidden there?

‘It’s probably because it’s a small town,’ Feltsman mumbled more to himself that to the youngsters. ‘Only one rink in the area… and everyone know each other… people in such places don’t tend to have high expectations.’

‘You’d be surprised.’ A mysterious smile appeared on Dmitri’s face. ‘It’s NOT the only rink in the area. There’s a one called _Winter Manor_ not far from here. Mister Pankin has a figure skating school there. It’s a pretty good competition for the _Snowy Neverland_. And besides…’

‘You’d never imagine, but coach Sasha got an offer to coach the _Na-tio-nal_ Junior Team!’ Borya sung with pride filling his voice.

_Whaaat?_

Feltsman could’ve just as well be hit with a thunder. The old coach glanced to where Sasha was. The bearded man was placing cones on the ice.

‘He looks thirty, at most,’ Yakov uttered.

‘He’s twenty-eight, to be exact,’ the cap owner informed him happily.

‘And a _kid_ like that was supposed to coach the _National Team_?!’

Well, not exactly national, ‘cause it was the Juniors, but STILL! _The Champions’ Club_ owner devoted almost his whole life to competitive sport and he knew that such situations simply DIDN’T HAPPEN!

His eyes were jumping between the one boy and the other, trying to see a sign… a lie… a signal indicating something like „we’re pulling your leg”. But Yakov found nothing. What’s more, he _remembered_ a rumour he heard from his friends from the Olympic Committee a while ago – that the Russian Ice Hockey Federation actually decided for a quite bold move and wanted to have some young guy coaching the Junior Team. So there atually was a grain of truth to those rumours?

‘Coach Sasha may be young, but he knows hockey better than anyone,’ Dmitri explained in a soft voice. ‘He’s been skating since he was a child. And he’s got a good hand with children. He’s grown up on the rink, and at the time he was fourteen, he became the coach’s assistant.’

 _He started earlier than I did,_ Yakov realised, swallowing a gulp in his throat. _Novak got me to babysit novices when I was already eighteen._

‘His students are often found by the Moscow’s and Petersburg’s clubs. At least once a season someone gets an offer of a scholarship. It’s probably hard to believe that in a place like this it’s possible to create future hockey stars… but that’s the truth. And all of that is thanks to our coach!’

‘And, of course, there’s his genealogy as well,’ Borya finished with a smile. ‘It would be hard for coach Sasha to stay unnoticed, considering who his father was.’

‘And who was his father?’

‘Viktor Fyodorovich Nikiforov!’

A realisation hit Yakov with its double force. No! With its _triple force_.

‘Viktor Nikiforov?’ Feltsman repeated in a voice full of disbelief. ‘ _That_ Viktor Nikiforov? The Russian ice hockey’s legend?!’

‘Ohoho, so you’ve heard about him?’

Of course… it was all so _fucking_ obvious now!

A man riding a hockey stick and sticking his tongue out.

The legendary gramps of the little Viktor.

And, most importantly…

‘Have I heard of him?’ Yakov hissed, pressing his hand against his head. ‘I have _fucking_ met him in person!’

‘OH HECK, REALLY?!’ two brats asked at the same time.

‘It wasn’t a long meeting. We’ve just exchanged three, maybe four sentences. He told me he got hit with a puck and his balls hurt. And he asked me if I knew where was it possible to get some condoms.’

Oh, how lovely the roles were swapped! Now these two lads had faces like they were wondering if Yakov was actually trying to fool them.

‘He didn’t know where to get condoms?’ Dmitri scratched his head. ‘So where exactly that meeting of yours was?’

‘In the Olympic Village.’

‘WOOOW! Really?!’

The fifty-year-old nodded. These Olympics were memorable… oooh, so memorable! Yakov felt like a complete idiot now. How come he hadn’t figure out who the man was at first!

So that’s where the strange feeling of deja vu came from – related both to the „recent” and „very unrecent” events. Viktor Nikiforov Senior, nicknamed „Niki” by his team – women’s admirer and a horrible deviant. And his _so very cute_ grandchild, Viktor Nikiforov Junior, a.k.a. bare-ass and Snegurochka – difficult words’ admirer and a _little_ deviant! It was hard to forget either of them. After only one encounter, they stayed in one’s mind for long. _Very long_.

It wouldn’t be too over-the-top to say that Yakov remembered the Grenoble Games _mostly_ due to Viktor Senior’s feats. The glorious ones were the spectacular goals, nimble dodges and other battles on the rink, causing ecstasy in case of at least half of the Russian winter sports’ lovers. While less glorious, and more funny (stupid and fucked up?) feats of Niki were things such as regular drainpipe climbing (in order to conquer or leave the chamber of a chosen one), hitting the ladies’ bathroom window with a puck (in order to scare naked women and „flush them” out of the shower cabin, yet every single time Niki would claim that „he was only practicing”), taking Russian team members out for binges (one of them ended up in grilling sausages on the Olympic Flame), playing the final match with his pants on his head („It’s not like I _wore_ them, I simply forgot to take them off” – Niki explained after taking the helmet off) and finally, Nikiforov’s trademark, which is riding the hockey stick after a won match.

Feltsman’s eyes lingered over Sasha once again. It was hard to believe that earnest twenty-eight-year-old had anything to go with the playful Russian ice hockey’s legend. On the other hand… it matched the rumours that were spread about Viktor Senior. It was said that Niki raised up two children by himself – a son and a daughter. Raised up, but, to be honest, a bit because he was forced to (when his lovers declared they didn’t intend to fulfill their parental duties). And as he was a spark seeing no world beyond ice hockey, the said kids never could count on their father and had to learn to be independent at a very young age. The rumours say that the girl was a spinster and a proffeseur at the Petersburgian Sports Academy, and her younger brother ended up being a coach somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And he was a good coach – if one was to believe Dmitri and Boris.

But wait! If Sasha was still there, does it mean that…

‘Your coach declined the offer to coach the Junior Team?’ Yakov asked in disbelief. ‘ _Why_?’

‘Hm… most likely for the same reason why he declined the offer to be a player in a few pretty good teams,’ the boy with the crew cut said. ‘When I asked him about it, he said he didn’t want to force himself into the professional league. He doesn’t like the competitive sports’ world.’

Feltsman wondered about the meaning of these words. ‘But he played for some time, right?’ he remembered. ‘One of my friends told me Alexander Nikiforov was in the Petersburg’s team for quite a while.’

‘He was, indeed. But he resigned.’

‘An injury?’

‘Rather an understanding of his own potential. Coach Sasha didn’t have his father’s gift. He was often saying about himself being quite „average”.’

 _I can understand that,_ Yakov thought sadly. _A classic example of a fern. Eh, I can relate…_

‘Mister Nikiforov is quite good at teaching others, but if he would have to teach something to himself, he’d have to give it a sweat,’ Dmitri summed up with a sigh.

‘Unlike the _kid_ ,’ Borya snapped in a half-voice.

Feltsman raised his eyebrows. _The kid_?

‘VIKTOR!’ he heard a furious yell from the downstairs. ‘Stop messin’ around and start skatin’ _normally_! We’re skatin’ forewards in this exercise, you get it?!’

‘But forewards is so boring and easy…’

‘Shut up and do what I say!’

The kids were doing a slalom between the cones. Most had a lot of difficulties with the exercise and slowed down when turning. But little Vitya not only skated at full speed, but also _backwards_. In that way, he earned himself four extra laps around the rink. When he was done with the punishment, he got scolded off by his dad for an untied lace.

‘And _that’s_ why you shouldn’t have your mother gettin’ things done for you!’ Sasha looked at his son’s skate dismissively. ‘She’s tyin’ them into those _so pretty_ bows that fall apart in the middle of a trainin’ session! Get yourself together at once!’

What happened next made Yakov’s jaw almost drop to the floor. The silverhaired boy lifted his foot to his head’s height – to his _fucking_ head’s height! – and started tying his lace in that exact position. _Holy fuck, how stretched he is!_ Feltsman had to rub his eyes out of astonishment.

Sasha wasn’t as happy about that.

‘THE BENCH!’ he yelled. ‘Go on the bloody bench, sit on it and tie your laces then! You’ll fall down if you skate on one leg.’

‘I won’t.’ Vitya raised his chin proudly. ‘I’ve never fallen down when skating on one leg.’

‘But one day you will and you’ll crack your head!’

‘Wearing this awful helmet, I think there’s no chance for that…’

‘ENOUGH! You’re gettin’ another punishment…’

The youngsters standing next to Yakov were watching the exchange between the father and the son with a mixture of amusement and resignation.

‘Oho?’ Borya rested his chin on his hand. ‘Coach Sasha is training Vitenka again.’

‘Eh, doesn’t he understand that the more he’s trying to pull a string, the more that little one drags it?’ Dmitri shook his head.

Feltsman raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the little demon once again, the one who a day before sold him an Ultra Quick Course of Sobering-up. It was strange to watch the kid now. And not even because he had an image of a wally swinging in the moonlight (which, indeed, he had in his memory, unfortunately _very fucking bright_ ).

No. It was rather that Viktor seemed… somehow… different. Since he entered the ice, he seemed very _defiant_. But not in the same way as the day before. The day before, it was pure wildness! A total chaos, zero rules and the fifty-year-old square’s helplessness for the unlimited childish joy! And now…

The silverhaired rascal was not the same child who came up with onanists and penisists. He wasn’t even the child who several minutes before was having little moments of love with his mother. The best word to describe how Viktor looked right at the moment was that metaphorical „puppy” that Dmitri mentioned. A gloomy, frustrated pup, maybe still barking happily, but also showing his resentment gently by pulling the leash regularly.

And Yakov had no idea what to think of that. Because… well, Sasha’s methods were ones that he approved of and that he understood. And Sasha himself seemed to be someone who Feltsman could very well relate with. They both were „average competitors, who became good coaches”. They both were „ferns”.

Although… in the way that Alexander Nikiforov treated his son, something seemed very inappropriate to the fifty-year-old man. Yakov didn’t know yet what it was, but he simply had a premonition… he felt that there’s a whole different side of the coin to the whole situation… and that it’s got something to do with the smile on Viktor’s face. The smile that seemed terribly artifical.

‘Do you know that kid well?’ Feltsman asked the teen students of Sasha again.

‘We know the whole Nikiforov family well,’ Borya said. ‘As you pointed out before, it’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. And coach Sasha and his wife are quite recognisable. She’s an actress and she often acts in children plays. Even though she’s flirting with everyone around, everybody knows she’s helplessly in love with her husband. And ignoring the fact that she’s sometimes… hm… eccentric and too enthusiastic… she’s a really good woman. And she’s an amazing cook! Every once in a while the coach invites all the students over for a strogonov. He might not look like that, but he’s really caring and understands a person when there’s a need… it happened many times that someone didn’t have money for the training sessions, and despite that coach Sasha let them practice. Eh, that’s probably one of the reasons why the rink has financial problems. Mister Pankin from the _Winter Manor_ likes to call our coach a „volunteer”. He does it every time when he comes to Ol’ Pete with an offer to buy the rink. It’s an arsehole. He’s been trying to oust us for years.’

‘And the youngster?’ Yakov kept asking. ‘You know… Viktor Junior.’

‘Yup, everyone knows him as well,’ Dmitri laughed. ‘He’s quite troublesome for people. He’s not a rascal, rather a little, cuddly bomb that explodes every once in a while. Personally, I like him… he’s cute in his own way. Sometimes the Nikiforovs get me to babysit him.’

 _Aaah, of course_! Feltsman remembered. _It’s him the pixie was talking about yesterday! „Dmitri told me old people wear nappies”._

‘On the other hand… he can really get under your skin,’ the cap owner kept talking. ‘He’s a good boy overall, but he’s got these moments when it’s really hard to remind him of the order of things.  Even coach Sasha has problems with handling some of his shenanigans… and you can see yourself our coach is a true children’s general!’

‘I get the idea the brat does what he’s told only when he’s threatened with cutting his hair?’ Yakov asked mockingly. ‘Is he a fanboy of the Middle Earth’s elves or what? Or maybe he just likes being mistaken for a girl?’

‘Actually… he’s got a mild trauma connected to scissors,’ Borya said. ‘Vitya often goes to the theatre with his mum. Not only to watch the shows, but also to…  well, you know, to spend some time behind the stage. I can say that Missus Anastasia’s colleagues brought him up to the same extent as his parents and grandpa.’

‘Well, okay, but what’s up with the hair?’ Feltsman asked unpatiently.

‘It was around three years ago, on the Senior’s birthday.’

‘The Senior… you mean Niki?’

‘Mhm. As you probably can suppose, a lot of vodka was spilled. After a few hours, almost everyone were hammered. At some point, Vitya went to Missus Albina and asked her to shorten his hair a bit. He complained it was getting into his eyes and it was uncomfortable.’

Yakov felt a shiver on his spine. The experienced coach had a feeling how the whole situation reached its end.

‘Missus Albina didn’t do that on purpose,’ Borya said, ‘she was simply drunk. Other adults didn’t prevent her from doing that, ‘cause they were drunk _as well_. On top of that, Senior was telling a funny anecdote at the time and no one paid much attention to what Viktor the little was doing. I was there together with Dmitri. I remember laughing with everyone else… and then, I heard a scream. Like out of a film. I almost got a heart attack.’

‘She cut the boy’s head. Like that.’ Dmitri took his cap off and showed what he meant, draggigng his finger across the top of his blonde-haired head.

‘Fuck,’ Yakov uttered.

‘Yep,’ Boris agreed. ‘There was a hell of blood. He had five stitches.’

‘Holy shit…’

‘Right? And the doctor did a huge mistake. When he was finished with the stitches, he joked Vitya had nothing to worry about, but he shouldn’t be surprised if he started getting bald at a very young age. And then everything began!’

‘When they were putting the stitches, the Junior didn’t even whimper. He acted tough in front of his father. He didn’t shed a single tear. But when he heard about getting bald, he simply shattered!’

‘He became so hysterical, you won’t even believe!’

‘He was yawling at the top of his lungs. Half of Russia must’ve heard him…’

‘No one could calm him down. Neither the father, nor mother, nor the doctor… no one! Only the Senior took care of that somehow. He put the grandchild on his knees and started telling him, „come on, Vitenka, don’t be so sad, grandpa had stitches on his head and he still has all of his hair. You definitely won’t get bald! You may have a little messed up personality, but it’s not a bad thing”.’

‘He gave it to him straight!’ Yakov smiled. ‘So typical of Niki.’

‘Maybe it was said straight, but it was effective,’ Dmitri sighed. ‘The kid calmed down at last. Eventually it turned out the panick was for nothing. The cut healed beautifully. As far as I know, he doesn’t even have a scar there. And his hair’s growing like weeds!’

‘Maybe he hasn’t got a scar… but the trauma is there,’ Borya pointed out.

A hint of cold appeared in Feltsman’s eyes. ‘If so, then why is his father threatening him with cutting his hair?’ the fifty-year-old asked, not able to hide the trace of criticism in his voice. ‘Not that I’m not a supporter of harsh upbringing, and no one died of a few bruises on the butt… but scaring the kid with scissors after what he’d been _through_? Isn’t that a bit too much?’

The cap owner rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about that. Coach Sasha isn’t serious about these threats. He’d never cut his son’s hair.’

‘And even if he really was to do so, Missus Anastasia wouldn’t let him,’ the crew-cut boy added. ‘The Junior knows it well. You can say „scissors” are the „key word” for him. When he hears anything about cutting his hair, he knows coach Sasha begins to get very, very angry at him. That’s why he usually does what he’s told to.’

‘Usually, but not always. There are moments when he hears the word „scissors”, but he doesn’t care. Once he cared so little that he’s gone too far. And then we found out there was a thing he’s scared of even more than of getting his hair cut.’

‘What thing?’ Yakov was sincerely curious.

‘Taking his skates away.’

It was another time that day when the fifty-year-old was actually shocked. ‘What?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Coach Sasha used that punishment only once. It was enough to make the kid act like a lamb for a _month_.’

Feltsman looked at Viktor. It was hard to imagine the silverhaired pixie doing nothing weird in thirty days.

‘And what did he do to deserve such punishment, if I may ask?’

_Did he call his teacher an onanist? Did he take his pants off in public?_

‘He was wearing a braid.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well… he was wearing a braid,’ Borya repeated carefully. ‘He braided his hair for the practice.’

‘And it’s a bad thing because…?

The teens looked at Feltsman as if he’d been an alien. ‘Err, I don’t know, because it’s very… erm… ladylike?’ Dmitri said, rubbing the nape of his neck. ‘You know, boys usually don’t wear braids.’

‘Boys usually don’t wear their hair waist-lenght!’ Feltsman mumbled. ‘His hair is so long it’s basically a miracle he doesn’t trip on them. If he wasn’t beating his teammates on the mugs with a beaded hairband, I can’t see any reason to forbid him braiding his hair. It should be better that nothing gets into his eyes, right?’

‘On the mugs?’ Dmitri wondered.

‘A beaded hairband? Borya tilted his head.

‘Nevermind.’ Yakov shook his head. ‘So you say your coach doesn’t like guys wearing ladylike hair?’ Saying that, he instinctively used his fingers to comb his own – at that point already _fucking long_ – hair. ‘Niki was wearing a ponytail as well,’ he pointed out in a cold voice.

‘A ponytail, not a braid,’ the boy with the cap said. ‘And… no matter what hairstyle he wore, he remained a huge, muscular guy. And Vitya… well…’

‘Many people mistake him for a girl,’ Boris saild. ‘Coach Sasha gets furious about that.’

‘Every time Viktor the little came to the practice wearing a braid, the father was coming to him, making a scene and unbraiding his hair. At the next practoce, Vitya would appear wearing a braid _again_ , and coach Sasha would unbraid it _again_. The next training session – _the same thing_. The one after that – _once more_. The kid was braiding his hair, the father was unbraiding it and so on, every day, every time… The little stubborn probably hoped the old man would finally let it go. But it went the other way. One day coach Sasha took Viktor’s skates, put them in a locker, locked it altogether and hid the key. Uh… what a fuss it was! Do you remember, Borya?’

‘Come on… only looking at that child’s face made a man feel like crying. He looked like he had half of his family killed!’

‘The face was nothing. But the scenes he began to make after that!’

‘There was a lot of crying.’

‘Right, there was…’

‘And following the father everywhere, and begging, and whining. A complete package.’

‘I’m impressed that coach Sasha handled that wailing for a whole week.’

‘But it was worth it. When he finally gave the skates back to him, Viktor never braided his hair again and started acting much less naugh… erm, why are you looking at us like that?’

‘No reason,’ Yakov snorted, looking away. ‘It’s just that in only a few seconds I’ve completely changed the opinion about my father.’

‘Erm… your _father_?’

‘Exactly. When I was little and I showed my middle finger to a militiamen, my father punished me by taking my skates away for three days. I called him a monster without a heart then. BUT now I see he treated me very mildly. Apparently, some boys have their skates taken away only for walking around wearing a wrong hairstyle.’

Feltsman gave the teens a drawn look. The positive opinion he had about Alexander Nikiforov after the first few minutes of the conversation started to crumble. Maybe that man wasn’t _that much_ similar to him after all?

‘To an otsider, treating a child like that may seem cruel,’ Dmitri said in a soft voice, ‘but coach Sasha does it for Victor’s good. Other boys are already making fun of the Junior. They don’t want to play with him… they’re whispering behind his back… they call him names… wearing a braid would be just another reason to mock him.’

‘And criticising that braid is just giving the kids a proof that all the mocking is _justified_ ,’ Yakov murmured. ‘Usually the only factor that can make a horde of minors stop acting like pricks, intentionally or not, is an adult’s behaviour. It’s hard to teach those brats acceptance if no one gives them a proper example.’

He wanted to add that instead of taking the skates away of his son, Sasha should rather teach his son how to beat other’s faces. The eleven-year-old Yakov was wearing a braid as well, but no one uttered a word about that. _I wonder why_?

Uncomfortable silence fell between the fifty-year-old and the teens. Instead of trying to loosen up the atmosphere, Feltsman looked towards the ice. Nikiforov’s students were having a mini-match. Viktor was with the puck.

‘Pass!’ some boy shouted.

His plea was ignored. Or rather – as Yakov realised after a moment – _unheard_.

The figure dashing through the ice with hair sticking out from under the helmet seemed to be in its own world. It looked a bit like a scene out of a computer game that someone has silenced. With his eyes fixed on the goal, Viktor was nicely skipping the roadblocks. Roadblocks, as in teammates. Both from his own and from the opponent’s team. It didn’t seem much a difference to him, who or what he should skip.

„Just don’t think about it too much, just score the goal as fast as you can and be over with that,” was what the nimble pixie’s face expression said.

‘Here!’ the fatso that Yakov remembered from earlier shouted.

‘Free here!’

‘Pass the puck, I’m next to the goal!’

‘VIKTOR, PASS THE PUCK!’ Sasha roared.

No effects. Viktor stayed in his joyous trance. With a dreamy face he jumped over a stick one of his teammates put at his feet and skated on. If there were additional points in hockey for the style, he’d get awarded generously!

Eh, the thing was, it wasn’t a „dance” hockey, but just simple ice hockey. Feltsman wasn’t a great specialist in all the sticks and pucks, but he’d seen several matches in his life and had an idea how it was supposed to look like – _not like that_.

The legendar Niki not only was a brilliant skater. He could _cooperate_ as well. He scored goals for the team, because he had a full image of the rink in his head and at every part of the game he could tell where his teammates were. The puck was shot like a bullet, between one player and another, and it was stopped only by the goal.

Viktor Junior had _no idea_ about cooperation. He could only skate well. Skate _very well_. _Bloody_ well. _Fucking_ well. At least ten times better than his teammates, and thanks to that he shot the puck towards the goal and scored with no effort.

A few kids on the bench clapped, but without any enthusiasm. There was no enthusiasm on Sasha’s face either.

‘Eh, and the coach’s got the dillema _again_ ,’ Dmitri broke the silence. ‘He wants to whip the kid’s skin for not passing the puck, but he shouldn’t, ‘cause the team scored a goal.’

‘Poor Vitya.’ Borya was looking at the boy with compassion. ‘When he’s got the puck, he gets to the goal with no effort, but when he hasn’t, he’s skating in circles and doesn’t know what is he supposed to do. If he looked more closely, he would notice he doesn’t need the puck to win at all.’

‘If someone here needs to look more closely, it’s his father,’ Yakov blurted out. ‘Meybe he’d notice that his son needs _neither the puck, nor the stick_.’

When the teens’ heads turned towards him, Feltsman figured out that he didn’t feel like engaging into a quarrel. After all, he was still bloody tired.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t want to criticise your coach. That’s none of my business why is he forcing his son to play ice hockey.’

He used the word „forcing” for a reason. He’d been watching the unfortunate practise for long enough time to get an idea that little Viktor wasn’t participating in it of his own will. The kid’s face was a proof enough.

‘No, that’s fine!’ Dmitri raised his hand in a soothing gesture. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks that.’

Yakov slowly turned towards the boy. ‘And what does your coach think?’

‘That hockey is a good thing for Viktor. The boy feels amazing on the ice. It would be a pity to waste that.’

‘There are other sports in which you need ice to practice,’ the fifty-year-old pointed out carefully.

‘If you want to say „figure skating”,’ Borya swallowed a lump in his throat and looked around, ‘then first, you should ensure you’re in a soundproofed room. And that coach Sasha’s not anywhere around.’

The figure skater raised his eyebrows.

Well, well! The yesterday’s „that boy will probably never wear figure skates” got a whole new meaning to itself. The riddle’s solution was very close.

‘So Mister Nikiforov doesn’t like figure skaters,’ Yakov said, tilting his head. ‘Does he have any legitimate reason to that, or is that a situation from the „I don’t like vegetables” or „I don’t like blue” genre?’

Asking that question, he had some premonitions. The experience taught him something about what were the categories where blokes who criticised children for wearing braids belonged.

‘Well… I’d say it’s both.’ Borya scratched his ear. ‘The coach prefers team sports overall. And he considers figure skating a very ladylike thing…’

 _Bingo!_ Yakov thought.

‘… but he’s biased against „skaters in tights” mostly because of his university colleague. That arsehole we told you about. Mister Daniel Pankin.’

‘The man who’s trying to oust you?’

The boy nodded.

‘And does the guy skate as a proffessional, or is that only an amateur?’ Feltsman kept asking. ‘I don’t recognise anyone with that name.

‘Hm… I think he’s an amateur, but I think he took part in some of the local competitions?’ Dmitri wondered outloud. ‘I’m not sure. Anyway, he was studying on the same year as coach Sasha. And now he’s got that skating school of his in a town next to this one. He’s built a huge skating rink, with windows all shiny and shit. He’s built a cool gym and a ballet room. No one has any idea where he got money for all that.’

Hm… speaking of that, wasn’t that Pankin’s rink at the Igor’s checklist? Yakov made a note to himself to had a better look at the mysterious rival of Sasha.

‘And speaking of figure skaters, the Senior didn’t think highly of them either,’ Borya said after a while.

‘Really?’ Feltsman was surprised. ‘When I talked to him, I had the opposite impression. He seemed to be a great fan of figure skating.’

‘Umm… but would you tell me… at which Olympics have you met? In Grenoble or in Sapporo?’

‘Grenoble.’

Well, technically they’ve met at both, but they’ve talked to each other only the first time.

‘Aaah… then everything’s clear.’ Dmitri nodded with a sigh. ‘After all, it was then when he met HER.’

‘Her?’

‘Coach Sasha’s mother. A friend from the Russian team. A figure skater. They say he was a huge fan of her… or rather a fan of „her absolutely perfect and symmetrical bottom”, if I may cite him. I don’t know if that was only a boast or a real story, but supposedly they had a one-night thing in Grenoble and they got themselves a child. And when the girl figured out she didn’t want to get her career ruined by some kid, she dropped him off at Senior’s place. So… well… thanks to that woman, the Senior stopped liking figure skaters.’

‘And the son joined him?’

‘And the son joined him,’ Dmitri confirmed. ‘Plus the incident from Sapporo.’

Yakov scratched his head. What significant could’ve happent in Sapporo? Wait… was it…

‘They say some Asian men’s skater caused a scandal by sleeping with one of the judges. One of the _male_ judges. When the thing leaked out, they’ve stripped him of his bronze medal.’

Remembering the scandal, Feltsman shivered. Yup, he remembered now. He remembered the Chinese, or maybe Korean wiseass, who decided to raise his artistic score by giving one of the judges a blow job. Unfortunately, during the incident they were seen by a cleaning lady. Even more unfortunately, she said what she’d seen only AFTER the Games. The ISU was backed into a corner and in a world of trouble – if the thing leaked out further, the whole competition could’ve been cancelled. Eventually they’ve managed to cover the whole case up – the judge got a sack, and the official reason for stripping the culprit of his medal were drugs. The honour was saved, the problem was solved. Miraculously they’ve somehow managed to do that without causing an international scandal.

But the people from the Olympic Village could’ve heard something on the grapevine.

‘Due to that incident, our coach formed an opinion that figure skaters like to climb up the ladder using the bed’s headboards.’ Dmitri smiled apologetically.

Yakov shrugged. ‘It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact,’ he said dismissively. ‘But I ensure you, boy, that hockey players, speed skaters, skiiers and ski jumpers like to climb that ladded just as often and as enthusiastically. Every sport has its black sheep. Or rather… „horny sheep”, as my friends would call them. The Asian guy wasn’t special because he was a figure skater. He was special because he was _caught_.’

‘Eh, you’re probably right…’

_Of course I fucking am!_

‘Anyway, your coach is a true record holder,’ Feltsman pointed out in a bitey voice. ‘I’ve never seen a man who had…’ he did a quick count, ‘… at least five reasons to dislike figure skates.’

A ladylike sport, the university rival, the skating school being a competition, a subconscious grudge against his mother, the stereotype of a gay blow jobber dancing on the ice.

 _For a moment I felt fucking embarrased how much I love this sport!_ Yakov snorted in his mind.

‘Coach Sasha dislikes figure skaters so much that Senior had to hide from him the fact that…’ Borya started, but he bit his tongue.

Feltsman’s curiosity raised at instant. ‘He had to hide from him the fact that… _what_?’

‘Erm… nevermind! Let’s just forget about that!’

The boy was rubbing his hands against each other energetically. Ah! Yakov recognized the gesture with ease – it was the one that was very characteristical to talkative ladies who’d piss themselves out of happiness if they only could repeat the secret they’ve heard, but they’re too afraid that someone blames them of spreading rumours! The fifty-year-old coach knew perfectly which buttons to push.

‘If you don’t want to, don’t tell me,’ he said, pretending to be uninterested. ‘But to be honest, I’ve got no idea what you’re worried about. Niki is dead, so he won’t be mad that you revealed his secret. And it’s not like I’m going to be a close friend of your coach.’

The gossip boy bursted. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you!’

‘Pfft, you were restraining yourself for so long!’ Dmitri made a comment with an amusement.

‘Piss off. You’ve already told that four people, so you have no right to rag on me. And that man isn’t even from here. On the other hand, just in case…’ Boria leaned over Yakov’s ear and asked in an excited whisper: ‘You can’t tell that anyone, okay? And if you happen to spill the beans, it’s not me who told you, fine?’

‘And why would it be you who’d have told me?’ Yakov snorted. ‘I don’t even know you.’

Hearing these words, the kid got even more excited. ‘Well! And that’s more like it! You get my drift!’

 _Of course I fucking get your drift!_ Feltsman thought mockingly. _You know who are you trying to teach secrecy? Man, I have mafia connections!_

„But no, I’m serious, don’t spread it around,’ Dmitri whispered. ‘If coach Sasha found out, Vitya would have some real trouble.’

‘What trouble could he possibly have if he’s dead?’

‘Not THAT Vitya.’

Yakov glanced towards the silverhaired boy sitting on the bench. While other kids were cheering on their playing friends, young Nikiforov was resting his chin on his hands and apparently fighting with himself to avoid falling asleep. He squeezed his eyes closed and yawned.’

‘You mean that little devil?’ Yakov asked. ‘And what has he got to do with all that?’

‘Everything,’ Dmitri said.

‘You know…’ Borya whispered, ‘Niki thought the world of his grandchild. He didn’t have time to raise his son, because of the hockey and all that… but he gave his every free second to little Viktor. He could afford that, ‘cause he was retired and he didn’t have anything better to do. And he was living with his son and his daughter-in-law. And because both coach Sasha and Missus Anastasia worked full time, they always were happy to get some help. Viktor the little didn’t complain either… he loved his grandpa with his whole heart. He even called him his „guru” quite often. They were very close. And that shouldn’t surprise anyone, ‘cause… hehe!’

Feltsman gave the boy a questioning look. ‘What?’

‘Aaah, right. You don’t know, of course. What do you think, why the boy was named after his grandpa?’

‘Because his father wanted him to follow the Senior’s steps?’ Yakov guessed. ‘To be a legendary athlete, just like his grandfather?’

‘Definitely not!’ The boy with the crew-cut shook his head. ‘We’ve already told you that coach Sasha doesn’t like the world of competitive sports. He surely wouldn’t want his son to follow his grandpa’s lead. No, the reason why those two share the same name is far more pragmatic. The Senior was the first person to hold Viktor Junior in his arms.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what I say. The Senior delivered the baby.’

The fifty-year-old opened his mouth in surprise.

‘You’re face now is _priceless_ ,’ Dmitri laughed.

‘When they were taking Missus Anastasia to the hospital, the car broke in the middle of a forest,’ said Borya, grinning. ‘Imagine that… the middle of a forest, complete darkness, no living soul within ten miles, no phones, no contact with the whole world and a woman giving birth. Coach Sasha passed out… BUT DON’T YOU TELL HIM I’VE TOLD YOU THAT ‘CAUSE HE’S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!’

Yakov didtn’t intend to tell that story to _anyone_. _Least_ likely to Alexander Nikiforov.

‘Coach Sasha passed out, and the Senior rolled his sleeves up and did what needed to be done. He knew ladies quite well, after all…’

‘Oh, he did…’ Dmitri confirmed with an awe pictured on his face. ‘He’d have passed a gyneacology exam even without proper studies!’

‘He delivered the kid neatly and he even took care of the birth cord! The nurses at the hospital praised him later! They say they’d been gloating over him for at least fifteen minutes.’

‘But they stopped after he asked if instead of a Midwife Certificate he could get a blow job? Poor fella…’

‘Missus Anastasia kissed his blackeye later and said that her son will be named after him. Coach Sasha was still unconscious then, so all of that happened without him being present. But the funniest thing happened at the Christening, when…’

‘Let’s leave the Christening,’ Feltsman interrupted the boy’s sentence. ‘What was Niki trying to hide from his son?’

‘The thing he did before he passed away.’

‘And what was that?’

Borya looked around once again to ensure no one was around. ‘You said little Vitya needs neither the puck, nor the stick,’ he said to the fifty-year-old in a conspirational whisper.

‘I’ve got such impression,’ Yakov confirmed slowly.

‘So… the Senior had the same conclusion. He knew the little one better than his parents and he easily discovered what Mister Sasha and Missus Anastasia couldn’t see.’

‘The kid was watching figure skating in secret,’ Dmitri explained quietly, ‘and when he was in France at his grandma’s, he went to an ice show, reportedly.’

‘The Senior wasn’t very happy about the fact, but the love for his grandchild was stronger than his bias. I’m telling you, he’d give a world to that child!’

‘He was always on his side! Always! No matter what happened.’

‘At first he was trying to suggest coach Sasha to take the little one to some skating lessons… but he only managed to have a fight with his son.’

‘Coach Sasha said that Viktor didn’t like such things, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have been suitable.’

‘The Senior couldn’t spill a word about the ice show in France or the allnighters in front of the TV, ‘cause he promised his grandson to keep his mouth shut. Eventually he tried to talk to his friends from the Olympic Committee. He asked them to ignite their contacts and inform the right people there was a kid in Novovladimirsk who is a great skater. Unfortunately, not long after that, the Senior died.’

‘But the whole ball was already rolling. Around three months after the Senior’s death, two men appeared here. A short one with a moustache and a yellow tie…’

 _Kozlovski from the Lenin!_ Yakov realised with a shock.

‘… and a one with glasses and a huge briefcase.’

_Smirnov. Vronkov’s sidekick. Well, well… two greatest clubs in Russia! Niki really did a great job._

‘And what did your coach say when he saw them?’

‘Nothing, ‘cause he _wasn’t here_. Ol’ Pete, whom the standing right here Dmitri has _told everything_ ,’ Ditri snorted quietly at being mentioned, ‘asked Mister Sasha to take a Zamboni for servicing. That’s how he got time for us for the whole day. In fact, that was the original plan of the Senior. He wanted to present it as a _fait accompli_ to his son. He thought that if Viktor was offered a scholarship or something like that, coach Sasha wouldn’t dare to turn it down.’

‘He’d always say that in that case… and _only in that_ case his son would let the little one figure skate. So, we all gathered up and realised his… erm… _master plan_.’

‘But something went wrong,’ Yakov said.

‘Erm… how do you know?’ Borya asked in surprise.

‘The kid is still here, right? So I guess something went wrong. _What_ went wrong?’

‘They didn’t like him.’

The fifty-year-old didn’t answer, instead just waiting patiently for the follow-up.

‘The men in suits didn’t like Vitya very much,’ Dmitri explained with a sigh. ‘He didn’t even know they were here, in fact… and that’s a good thing, I think, ‘cause if he had known and heard he didn’t make a good impression, he’d probably have cracked. You know… when it comes to skating, the little one wants to be the best at everything.’

‘And did the two importants tell you something more?’ Feltsman asked. ‘Or did they just say „that’s not what we’re looking for” and simply leave?’

‘No, they expained it in detail.’ Borya started to count on his fingers. ‘That he’s too tall, which is apparently important when it comes to jumping… that he hasn’t got enough grace… that he’d never skated, so they’d have to teach him everything from scratch… that both father and granfather had a pile of injuries, and the kid’s got their genes… that…’

‘And the grandmother?’ Yakov interrupted.

‘Erm… grandma? Luba Rozdestvenska?’

‘No, his father’s mother,’ the fifty-year-old said in an unpatient voice. ‘You said Niki hooked up with a figure skater. So I’m asking, what about her. Did she have many injuries?’

‘Unfortunately, we don’t know anything about her. The Senior never wanted to talk about her. As far as I know, he didn’t even reveal her name to his son.’

Well, the choice was quite limited. All they needed was to check the list of skaters who participated in the Grenoble Games. Eh, what a pity Yakov didn’t remember the names of his friends from the team. He’ll have to call Tatyana later. She took part in some of Niki’s secret binges, so she should know something.

‘Nevermind. I’ve interrupted you… you were saying, there was another thing?’

Dmitri nodded. ‘The one with a moustache listed two more reasons. And these were the ones that determined the case. The first one was the fact that he was disobedient and undisciplined.’

‘Yeaaah… I can agree that in his case it’s something what strikes one’s eye,’ Yakov mumbled. ‘And the other one?’

‘Lack of talent.’

After the statement, both teens burst in laughter. They seemed _bloody_ amused.

‘And on what grounds Kozlo… _the one with a moustache_ came to such conclusion?’ Feltsman asked.

He was getting more intrigued with every moment. As far as he could agree with another accusations more or less, then he had a COMPLETELY different opinion on his talent. A blind man could tell the kid skated amazingly.

On the other hand… only the ability to move effortlessly on the ice wasn’t always enough. If it was, every speed skater or hockey player would be able to move to figure skating with no problems. But unfortunately… the case wasn’t that simple.

‘He got an assistant to get on the ice and show some moves to the kid,’ Dmitri said. ‘Some choreographic elements, or however he called them…’

‘With or without music?’

‘Without. Viktor didn’t really feel like repeating all of these, ‘cause he was in the middle of trying to jump over the cones… but the assistant kept on pushing and pushing, said it was an order of the rink’s owner, an order of the coach and so on… eh, we should’ve warned him of saying such things. Tell him to bribe the kid with a lollipop, or something like that. But, well… he finally agreed to repeat the moves.’

‘He didn’t remember the first half, and he did errors in the second,’ Borya chuckled. ‘Ah, and after that he asked the man what colour the hair over his dick was. You know, that bloke had highlights on his hair and Vitya was confused.’

Yakov snorted loudly. ‘Of course, he’d fucking have _die_ if he hadn’t asked that!’ Feltsman said, looking at Viktor cutting through the ice with a corner of his eye. ‘That’s probably why he couldn’t repeat all these moves. He must’ve been thinking about that all the time.’

Dmitri and Borya’s eyes almost popped out of the sockets. ‘HOW DO YOU KNOW?’ the guy with the cap uttered.

‘ _That’s exactly_ what he said after we asked him why he didn’t remember the moves!’ the one with the crew cut added. ‘Are you a medium, or what?’

Yakov wasn’t a medium. Actually, he was just as surprised as his conversation partners. His statement was supposed to be a mean joke… _he wouldn’t have thought_ it would be proven to be the TRUTH.

_He couldn’t focus because he couldn’t stop thinking about some man’s PUBES?! It’s impossible, isn’t it?_

After remembering all what happened the night before, Feltsman realised it was actually _very possible_! Pfft, of course! That little deviant creature had a very serious ability to do that – if he was trying to take some stranger’s trousers off and when the very same stranger was watching him, he took his _own_ pants off, then why wouldn’t he get curious about the contents of some bleached guy’s pants?

‘The guy probably fleed like he’d been running for his life,’ Yakov mumbled.

‘Yup, he joined the one with a moustache at once,’ Borya cackled. ‘He didn’t tell him about the encounter’s details, he just kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief nervously. We were having a really good time thanks to him.’

‘We were having a good time, but also… we were sad,’ Dmitri added after a moment. ‘You know, because of Viktor. The kid lost his last chance to show what he’s capable of. On the other hand… maybe it’s better like that? In Moscow or in Petersburg he’d have to train really hard. And if he really is prone to injuries, he could end up like his grandpa… you know, the Senior had some serious issues with his knees. During the last year of his life, he was barely able to walk. I’m not sure if that was the exact cause, I don’t know anything about medicine, but lack of activity had a bad impact on his heart… the doctor explained later that a professional athlete’s heart beats a little different compared to a regular one.’

 _That’s true,_ Yakov agreed in his mind. _If I did my cardiography at anyone else’s than my dear doctor, I’d probably get forced into an ambulance and taken to a hospital instantly._

‘The Senior had a heart attack,’ the cap owned said in a sad voice. ‘And he was only in his sixties. It happened so suddenly. Especially coach Sasha had a hard time after that. He could’ve complained about his father, but he really loved him. Viktor, obviously, also did. Even Missus Anastasia couldn’t gather up after losing her father-in-law.’

So familiar… eh, it all sounded do familiar! Feltsman was in much pain as well after the death of his wife’s parents. He missed them just as much as he missed his own. Especially the father-in-law.

The man’s hand started to play with the signet ring on instinct. The pain was still very much present.

‘And coming back to the kid…’ Yakov decided to bring the conversation back to a less sad topic, ‘the men in suits said he has no talent. But you don’t agree with them?’

The teens didn’t answer straightaway. They glanced at Viktor – their faces indicating they were looking for something that would make the answer easier. Dmitri took a sip from his flask.

‘You know… it’s not that easy when it comes to Vitenka’s talent,’ he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the boy. ‘Suppose you’re an art teacher. You have a group of students draw a picture of a person, using only geometrical figures.’

‘A textbook lesson of good proportions, right?’ Yakov murmured.

‘Exactly. So… you show how to do everything on the blackboard, you explain everything, clarify how to do this and that, and then all the students do their drawings. No one has any problems with the task. Except for just one guy, who does it without any care and completely fucks up any proportions. What do you think then?’

‘He doesn’t have a talent for drawing.’

‘Mhm… it’s just a natural conclusion. BUT then you leave the classroom and there’s an interesting situation. The same bloke’s sitting in a park and is drawing a portrait of some person. _Perfect_ proportions, beautiful style, great colours, excellent mapping of the real picture… in other words, a guy who you’ve called a no-talent only an hour ago, is now casually drawing a piece of art that could be shown in the Louvre, and you’re watching.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Wrong. It IS possible.’

Dmitri’s thumb pointed towards young Nikiforov. Yakov furrowed.

‘I think I don’t understand.’

‘Most kids are trying to do every exercise as well as they can,’ Borya said with his ear rested on his hand. ‘Kids can be obedient or disobedient, good or naughty, but when they decide to follow a coach’s orders, they usually give their best. It DOESN’T work like that in Viktor’s case.’

‘Vitenka is the type who can do absolutely everything,’ Dmitri highlighted, ‘given that he wants to do that.’

Yakov gave himself a moment to digest these words. ‘I see,’ he mumbled.

‘No, _you don’t see_ ,’ the boy with a cap sighed. ‘Look into my eyes. When I said everything, I meant _Everything_. Everything with a capital „E”. You get it? You can come up with the most difficult task in the world that no eight-year-old child can do. But Viktor will do that.’

‘Given that he wants to?’

‘Given that he wants to.’

‘And that’s where the hurdles start,’ Boris sung.

‘Exactly,’ Dmitri sighed even louder. ‘You see… outsiders who don’t know Viktor have great problems with telling what that boy is actually capable of doing. His results in various exercises are bloody tricky… Basing on them, many people assume that the kid can’t do anything. While in reality, almost at all times, Viktor’s problem isn’t lack of ability, but lack of _motivation_. That kid has been skating since he’s learnt how to walk. Most exercises that his peers struggle with, he does with his hands tied behind his back. But having those loads of talent has its own price… the boy loses his interest quickly and hates exercises that are too easy.’

‘If he has it in for something, then with or without help, sooner or later, he will learn how to do that. But if he thinks something is stupid and uninteresting and boring, he’ll dig the heels in and no force will make him do that. Trying to get him to do it anyway usually makes it worse. I mean… sure, when his fathers _roars_ at him, then he’ll finally move his butt, but he won’t put much effort into it. And if he can weasel his way out, he will.’

 _Just like someone else who I know_ , Yakov realised.

It was funny how that child’s characteristics resembled the ones of Tatyana from some years ago.

‘Coach Sasha says his son is lazy,’ Dmitri said with a deep-thinking face, rubbing his chin. ‘And actually, during the practice sessions the little one seems to be lazy… but if you think more deeply into that, which lazy boy spends the whole winter on a frozen pond, skating until someone drags him back home by his ear?’

A whistle tune went off at the rink. Watching little hockey players standing abreast, Feltsman thought that the conclusion he reached earlier was proven – that coin _really_ had two sides.

‘So as you can see, the situation isn’t that simple.’ Borya stopped leaning on the railing. ‘That was a nice chat, but we’ve got to go. We’re starting our practice in a moment.’

‘Yup.’ The boy in a cap stretched. ‘We have to get mentally prepared. The coach threatened he’ll do a circuit.’

‘If we don’t get changed quicly, we’re getting five laps for sure.’

‘Teen. FifTEEN laps.’

‘Uh… I’m getting tired from just thinking about that. Goodbye then!’

Yakov looked at the shavers politely. They were by the stairs when they suddenly turned around and looked at the fifty-year-old again.

‘Actually… we forgot to ask… you were in the Olympic Village, right? You’re muscular. Did you play hockey too?’

‘No, I was a figure skater. Or, as your coach would say, the lowert form of an athlete.’

Earlier it was them who had a chance to watch his „priceless face expression”. He had to give it back to them, didn’t he? Ah, those eyes rolled back in their heads and mouths agape…

‘Better get to the locker room,’ Feltsman suggested mockingly. ‘If it was up to me, you’d get fifteen laps for every _minute_ being late.’

The speed they fled in made his day a hell happier. He wondered if they’d tell their coach who they’ve met?

Yakov glanced at a clock hanging over the bar. The ice rink’s owner probably wasn’t back yet? Having no much better things to do, the fifty-year-old coach desided to check out what the silverhaired little devil and his father were doing.

The ice was almost empty. The kids crammed at the bench were taking their hockey skates off, chirping about some meaningless bullshit. Some of them were joined by their parents holding their backpacks. Viktor was picking up the cones standing around the goals (as punishment, probably?), and Sasha was standing by the board and quarreling with his wife. Feltsman opened up his ears.

‘… and don’t play that stupid kissin’ game with him! _How many times_ have I told you that! You don’t have a daughter, but _a son_!’

‘You’re overreacting.’ Anastasia shrugged. ‘A bit of affection never hurt anyone.’

‘It’s not ‘bout bein’ affectionate, but ‘bout encouragin’ him to do weird things.’ The boy’s father pressed his fingers against his forehead with an annoyed face. ‘He’s already different. His friends call him a weirdo and _they’re right_! For hell’s sake! I’ve told you not to let him meet your mother…’ he uttered the last sentence through clenched teeth.

Pretending to be very appalled, the woman dusted a blond lock off her shoulder. ‘Don’t blame everything that’s wrong in the world on my mummy,’ she sung in a melodramatic voice. ‘I know you don’t like each other, but you’re still family.’

‘I’m not blamin’ all that’s wrong on her. But it’s a fact that after ev’ry time he visits Paris, Viktor is gettin’ more and more wild.’

‘It’s not my mummy’s fault! Maybe she is a bit… _eccentric_ , but it’s not her who Viktor has learnt all the weird things from. Your dad…’

Seeing her husbands’ eyes widen, the woman dropped the sentence. For a fraction of second, sadness appeared in Alexander Nikiforov’s sad eyes. But the man quickly hid it behind another frown. Anastasia placed her hand on the partner’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, love… I didn’t think properly when I said that.’

He slowly let the air out and shook his head. ‘What time will you be back home?’ he asked in a tired voice. ‘Viktor’s comin’ back with you, right?’

‘No, he’s going to school. He’s got dance classes.’

Sasha’s murmur was full of loathe and disapproval. It sounded like he’d been trying to stop vomit. ‘He hasn’t quit that yet? Great! Another ladies’ thing…’

‘Don’t forget what you’ve promised him, love,’ Anastasia sung, wagging her pointing finger. ‘You’ve told him you’ll agree for every pastime you won’t have to _pay_ for. The PE teacher gives dance lessons for _free_. I’m happy Viktor’s taking those classes. At least I’ll have someone to dance with at wedding parties. It’s not like I can count on my husband in that matter… And besides that, it’s a great, all-round activity. Vitya will get some muscles thanks to it.’

‘He’ll get muscles, but not friends,’ Sasha mumbled. ‘Only girls go to these classes. Viktor is the only boy there. But what fuckin’ difference it makes if ev’ryone take him for a girl _no matter_ what! All thanks to that bloody hair… it’s drivin’ me crazy! Let’s just give him some sedatives and drag him to hairdresser’s!’

‘Speak for yourself. I love his pretty hair.’

‘Thanks to that _pretty hair_ his teacher chose him to play _a girl_ in the school play! He’s goin’ to play Snegurochka… can you imagine that?! And if it wasn’t enough, he’s got to kiss A BOY!’

Anastasia giggled. ‘You know, Sasha… in that matter, you have nothing to worry about.’ She winked at her husband. ‘Vitya kissed at least twelve girls by now. It’s about ten more than you have kissed in your whole life.’

‘T-t-that’s true, but…’ Sasha uttered with a beetroot flush on his cheeks, ‘but it’s not ‘bout that!’

‘Oh, my dear, I’m jealous! When I kiss other men in the theatre, you’re not even half as angry as you’re now.’

‘It’s your job. I’m not angry ‘cause I know you don’t feel anything when doin’ that. _But Viktor does_. I perfectly remember his face when he told us he has to kiss a boy. He was _excited_.’

‘With the play,’ Anastasia pointed out, ‘not with the fact of kissing his friend. It’s the first time he’s acting in a school play. It’s just natural he’s feeling happy.’

She grabbed her husband by both cheeks and looked straight into his angry, blue eyes. ‘Don’t be so harsh on him, darling,’ she asked in a tender, affectionate voice. ‘Since your dad has died, you’re too strict for both him and yourself. I know it’s hard, but… you’ve _got to_ let go a little. Our son is only eight years old. We’ve got _loads of time_ to unlearn him all these weird things. I know what you’re most afraid of, but remember you don’t raise him on your own… you’ve got me. We’re both on the same wagon and that’s why _we’ll manage_ to reach our destination. Everything is going to be all right. Not all problems need to be solved with rigour. Try to give Viktor a little more freedom. I’m sure he will appreciate that. Okay?’

Sasha took her wife’s hands off his cheeks very slowly. But instead of letting go of her slim fingers, he put them on the board and squeezed them hard. The tough man’s thumb stroke his partner’s wedding ring.

‘Okay.’ Alexander Nikiforov sounded like a beaten soldier. ‘Okay, I’ll do my best.’

Anastasia’s face shined. ‘I’m happy with that!’

She gave her significant other a quick and affectionate kiss. They’ve barely broken the contact, when a joyous chirrup went off behind Sasha’s back. ‘Daddy, daddy! Look what I can do!’

Yakov, who was watching the situation from up above, welcomed Viktor’s scream with great relief. The tenderness between the husband and wife made him remember things he didn’t want to think about at the moment at all. At least not so shortly after the divorce.

The young Nikiforov got rid of his helmet a long time ago. With his silver ponytail waving around, he tried to mimic a sit spin that he watched Feltsman doing the day before. It was a bit mishandled… but it still _was_ a sit spin! The fifty-year-old coach couldn’t stop the feeling of awe. He also started to wonder if anyone… ever taught that child how to do spins. If not, it would mean he’d learnt the element _completely on his own_! With absolutely _no_ knowledge of the theory!

The thought was unprobable, but _exciting_.

‘And what? And what?’ Viktor chirruped to his parents.

Anastasia clapped enthusiastically. ‘Bravo!’ she exclaimed, hopping like a five-year-old. ‘That was amazing, love!’

Sasha remained unimpressed. ‘It’s great you can spin in circles without a point and all that, but tell me… why are you doin’ that?’ he asked, raising his eyebrow. ‘What’s the purpose?’

A shy blush appeared at the boy’s face. There was no doubt the kid expected a whole different reaction. Discouraged by his father’s words, he put his hands behind his back and fixed his eyes on the ice.

‘Because…’ he started, looking at his dad shyly, ‘because it’s cool. And that great sir from yesterday did that, but he was spinning very fast, and it was so cool, and…’

‘Get off the ice. The juniors are startin’ the practice in a moment.’

Sasha turned to his wife again. He was opening his mouth to say something, but the son called him again. ‘But daddy, daddy! Look again! I can do this as well!’

Viktor jumped a single Axel.

‘And how was that? How was that?’

 _Fucking great, but you’ve got to tense your butt and stretch your leg out,_ thought Yakov, standing in the audience. _But wait, you didn’t ask me!_

‘That sir did that yesterday as well!’ the boy said with a joyous smile. ‘Great, isn’t it?’

Feltsman ducked on instinct. Squatting, he was watching the ice through a space between the bars. The last thing he needed was that kid noticing him here!

Just like the previous time, Anastasia clapped. And Sasha repeated, like a scratched CD: ‘Get off the ice. The juniors are startin’ the practice in a moment.’

The silverhaired child’s lips narrowed into a thin line. A spark of bitterness appeared in Viktor’s eyes. The little hands clenched into fists.

‘So watch this!’

The boy rushed around the rink’s side, accelerating with every yard. Yakov started to have bad feelings. Sasha apparently did as well, as he gave up trying to talk to his wife and turned around to look at his son. ‘Viktor, what are you doing?’ he called with a hint of warning in his voice.

The kid didn’t answer. Instead, he turned half way around. Skating backwards, he speeded up even more. Sasha’s hand, rested on the board, shivered a little. ‘Viktor, stop!’

Without paying enough attention, it was easy to miss – a small amount of fear that was present in the very last sound.

The boy ignored his father.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Yakov thought, frightened. _He can’t be trying to…_

But he _bloody_ was! For hell’s sake, of course he was! For fuck’s sake, that damn, little stuntman… what is he thinking, doing such things while having _absolutely no idea_ about jumping?! That idiot never even had figure skates on his legs! He’s fucking insane! He was speeding backwards, going for broke, and then he turned, preparing for a fucking _double Axel_!

Yakov Feltsman and Alexander Nikiforov yelled at the same time: ‘STOOOP!’

But it was too late. Vitya took off. 

xXx

**Trivia:**

* Hockey player Viktor Nikiforov is a real figure! You can read about him on Wikipedia ;) But of course, for the sake of this story, I’ve modified his biography.

* As it comes to proffessional athlete’s hearts and the fact that they beat differently than regular people’s ones – I didn’t make that up. It’s true. Three of my family members (who were proffessional volleyball players) got heart attack before they turned seventy. And my ninety-year-old grandma, who was a volleyball player as well, had EKG recently and they wanted to take her straight to the hospital. She’d been explaining for fifteen minutes that her heart rate was like that for several decades. But I can’t remember if it is faster or slower – if someone knows that, please let me know. [Translator’s Note: the phenomenom is called bradycardia, and it means that one’s heart rate is below 60 bpm, therefore it’s lower than a normal heart’s – a normal thing for athletes]

* Grenoble (1968) and Sapporo (1972) are real locations of the Winter Olympic Games, but I’ve made up the incident in Sapporo.

* If you want to see how riding a hockey stick looks like, watch _Happy Gilmore._ Or have a look at [this YouTube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTkEVeWBaow), at 2:20 :P

 

xXx

Progress of translating the next chapter:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s Notes]  
> Uwaaah! You’ve been waiting for the chapter for so long!  
> I really want to thank you for your understanding and patience.  
> Also, I’m sorry there’s no picture for this chapter. I’ve got the sketch done (of Viktor’s parents :3), but I didn’t have enough time to colour it. I gave it up to… finish the next chapter instead :) Of the two, I’d rather wait for a picture than for a chapter, right? The fifth chapter is quite short, so I wish it’ll be finished shortly…  
> I hope you had fun reading!
> 
> [Translator’s Notes]  
> Uwaaah! You’ve been waiting for the chapter for so long!  
> I’m sorry for that. Again. And I’ll do my best to translate the next one more quickly… :D I’ve got a motivation – I can’t finish Jora’s new story untill I translate the next chapter!


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